


Acquiesce

by Purpleplasticpurse



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:15:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24788338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Purpleplasticpurse/pseuds/Purpleplasticpurse
Summary: It's a bad idea to even consider something could happen between them. To weigh the odds would be playing with fire. To act upon it - they might as well just throw gas and watch it burn. Part 3 of 3. THANK YOU for all of your sweet comments and kudos!
Relationships: Aaron Hotchner/Emily Prentiss
Comments: 32
Kudos: 108





	1. One

**Practical** : (of an idea, plan, or method) likely to succeed in real circumstances.

By definition, it's a bad idea to even consider something could happen between them. To weigh the odds would be playing with fire. To act upon it - they might as well just throw gas and watch it burn.

It would _never_ work. They know this all too well - they're both too jaded to think differently. It's what happens when you play the game.

It's a game they're willing to play. In this game, losers end up broken hearted and there's rarely a winner.

But hearts aren't practical.

**Dance**

It's the dance they do.

It's not intentional, but it's almost effortless. Small moments in a day that build up over time.

Some (those more optimistic) might even call it chemistry.

A subtle glance here or there.

The accidental brush of his shoulder against hers while they review case files on one more flight.

Sometimes (if they're lucky) it's the trace of her honeysuckle scented shampoo when he holds the door open to allow her through, or the traces of his cologne she can barely discern at their morning briefings before her eyes are even fully open.

It's when they sit side by side in the Suburban (he's behind the wheel almost always; she rides in shotgun) without saying a word as they stake out yet another unsub. Occasionally, it's the silent understanding of the emotional turmoil they face each and every day on their job as they wrestle with the constant questions - the how, the why. Questions they can't seem to find, with answers they already have.

It's how she covers him in the field - collected and unflinching - always just a few steps behind him but somehow perfectly in sync. She can anticipate his next steps; he doesn't have to use words. Every now and then, he's reminded of how far they've come since she joined the team.

Once in a while, she wears his favorite sweater; the deep v-necked emerald green one. Normally he doesn't pay much attention to those things, but there's something about that damn sweater. On a good day, he wears the light blue shirt with the tie and she hates herself for knowing that he owns no less than 15 shirts all in varying shades of blue. The light blue one is still her favorite.

**Deliveries**

He brings her coffee on a Monday in late September and she notices _immediately_ that he's wearing _that_ light blue shirt.

There's no rhyme or reason for his generosity, but it's early, it's Monday, and it's from her favorite cafe down the street, so she's not complaining.

Hotch sets it down beside her and Emily is momentarily confused because there are 7 of them on the team, but she only sees two cups. She lifts an eyebrow but is grateful for the unexpected delivery, and thanks him with a small, but friendly, smile before turning back to her computer, tapping away at the keys.

He's halfway up the steps to his office when it dawns on him that she's wearing the emerald sweater.

_..._

He has to leave unexpectedly in a rush a week later on Tuesday when Jack falls off his bicycle and needs an X-Ray of his left arm. 7 hours and one exhausting ER trip later, Jack rocks a brand new, neon green cast ( _Mommy's favorite color, he says)._ He's brave, doesn't cry, and asks if they can take a picture of his cast and send it to Mommy in heaven.

"Sure, Buddy," he obliges, his mouth stretched in a thin line, and Jack smiles hugely for the camera while holding up his casted arm, brandishing a lollipop in the other hand.

On the way home, Hotch swallows a lump in his throat.

He's been gone for hours when Emily realizes she never handed in the reports she normally presents to him every Tuesday - reports that he needs to review and give to Strauss by tonight. She gets his address from Garcia, who for once doesn't ask any questions. She sits through an extra 30 minutes of Northern Virginia traffic before arriving at his house, file folders tucked neatly under her arm.

When the door opens, he looks genuinely surprised to see her standing there, maybe even a bit alarmed. "Prentiss? What are you doing here?" He leaves the door open a bit and steps onto the porch.

"You wear suits at home too?" Her tone is light; she wears a slightly amused grin.

_She'd also love to see him out of that suit, but that's neither here nor there._

She's caught him off guard. He uncharacteristically stumbles over his words and glances down at his suit and tie. "I .. ah - we just got back from the hospital not too long ago."

"How did things go?"

"He has a broken arm. Has a cast for the next six weeks, but he's fine. Ice cream later will do the trick." Hotch eyes her up and down, beginning to question her motives for showing up on his doorstep seemingly at random. "What do you need?"

"I - ah - I didn't get these to you before you left," Emily holds out the files, suddenly feeling awkward and woefully out of place. "I thought you might need them."

He lifts an eyebrow before taking the stack, glancing at the contents. He does need them. In his haste to tend to Jack, he'd forgotten all about them. It's not the first time he's forgotten something since Haley's death. Being a single parent and an _only_ parent are two wildly different scenarios. A scenario, he thinks with a pinch of sadness, he's semi responsible for.

"I didn't know you made house calls, Prentiss." There's a hint of appreciation in his tone.

_She doesn't, but he's a different story._

**Birthday**

Her birthday (October 12th - information he keeps for later) falls on a Friday. JJ and Garcia plan a trip to DC to celebrate (dinner at a swanky Tapas restaurant and bar hopping) and throughout the day it becomes very clear this is a girls-only occasion.

Hotch stays in his office later than usual; Jack is spending the evening with Jessica and the mountain of files on his desk isn't getting any smaller. He works on autopilot for several hours before making a dent in the pile.

When he heads out for the night, she's also leaving with Garcia and JJ. He's never seen JJ wearing as much makeup as she is right now; Garcia's teetering on a pair of insanely high heels ( that's nothing new), but that's not what (who) he's looking for.

Emily looks stunning in a little black dress that hugs her in all the right places and emphasizes curves he's never noticed before. It's short without being _too_ short, and he has to pull his eyes away from her legs before it becomes blatantly obvious that he's checking her out.

They're talking excitedly, ready for their night ahead as they hustle past him. "Night, Hotch!" JJ calls over her shoulder as Garcia whips out her phone to call a cab, chattering a mile a minute. He gives a half hearted wave, and against his better judgement, calls her name.

"Hey Prentiss?"

Emily stops and turns, spinning on her heels and taking three even paced steps toward him. The little black dress really does fit like a glove. _Eyes up_ , he tells himself, because he doesn't trust himself. He doesn't have a card or a gift or _anything_ for her, so he stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets.

It leaves him and her, her and him, for a brief moment. In her heeled shoes, they're almost the same height; she's still shorter by about an inch.

"Happy birthday. And, have fun tonight."

"Thanks, Hotch." She gives him a dazzling smile; it makes his head spin just a little bit more.

When she turns around to meet her friends outside, she puts a little extra sway in her hips. She's not stupid, and she knows he's still staring at her ass.

When Monday morning rolls around, they remain tight lipped about their night despite the good natured teasing from Rossi and Morgan.

But eventually they relent, and Garcia is just about to whip out her phone to show the team some seemingly questionable dance floor photos when Hotch cuts them off. "I think we should get started."

As JJ starts to present the case, he's sure he's seeing things when she throws a quick, subtle wink from across the table.

**Solace Part 1**

Exactly three weeks after her birthday, they fly home from Savannah on a Friday night. This case was a tough one - two missing little girls (best friends) from two sets of families, one girl returned safely, and one girl gone forever.

It hits her particularly hard, and she's silent the entire trip home. Emily doesn't even crack a grin when Morgan attempts a few half-hearted jokes to cheer her up. She turns Reid down when he asks to play cards. Instead, she just turns her shoulder toward the window and tucks her cheek against her hand.

It's late - her watch reads 1:18 AM (Saturday now) with more than an hour to go. The plane is dark and quiet. Most of the team is sleeping, or at least pretending to be. She wishes she could sleep too, but she can't switch off her brain. Not tonight.

She turns her head to the window, a sheet of dark hair falling like a sleek curtain over her cheek, and watches the wing of the plane slice through the dark lumps of clouds. There's a rustling of fabric against leather, and soft footsteps that get closer to her. Footsteps she knows.

"Can I sit?" His voice is two octaves lower than normal, and it sends a shudder down her spine. It's the first she's talked to him in hours. He's wisely kept his distance from her thus far. For that she's grateful, but she knows he's been keeping a watchful eye on her since leaving Savannah.

_He sees everything, somehow. She's no exception._

"Sure."

Hotch sits across from her (she's grateful he doesn't sit _next_ to her) and stretches his legs out in front of him. "Can't sleep?"

"I never tried." She rests her chin on her fist and stares just past his head, absentmindedly.

"How are you holding up?"

She blinks, once then twice, giving him a perplexed stare. "Is there truly an answer to that question?"

It's his turn to blink. "I guess not."

"Ask me in a few days." Emily sighs defeatedly and looks around, ensuring she didn't wake any of the others. When she's satisfied they haven't been disturbed, she continues in a strained voice. "I can't … I can't stop thinking about those parents." She swallows a sob and her voice wavers. "It's cruel, what happened to that family. Both of them."

Hotch can only nod, because she's right, and he has no answers. She closes her eyes, tipping her head back, staring at the ceiling.

"Emily." Her name slides off his tongue like a poem in three syllables, and he waits until her eyes meet his. "We can't always win." He knows her guilt; he's been there before.

"We should have won this one, Hotch."

"I know."

They sit in resigned silence for the rest of the flight.

**Solace Part 2**

A week later, it's her turn to comfort him.

Things hit close to home literally and figuratively, when a little boy is abducted from a park in Centreville while on a field trip with his first grade class.

She knows the only thing he sees in his mind is Jack.

He's demanding of his team on this one - more so than his usual high standards - and they investigate, question, canvas, and interrogate relentlessly - and he expects nothing less than perfection from each of them. It's almost overwhelming, and emotions run high all around for 3 days.

In the end, it's still not enough, and they lose this one too.

Seventy-two hours after they take the case, it's Hotch who finds the body (Emily's right behind him when he does), 8 miles away behind an abandoned lot in Fairfax.

The anger in his face is unmistakable when he kneels next to the boy. It's what carries him through the next few hours on the scene, because if it weren't for his anger, he'd start to feel the other emotions - the fear for his own son, the guilt for not getting there in time.

This one hits him hard. He lashes out at the two uniformed cops who show up on the scene, lambasting them for their inexperience and insensitivity, before storming away with his mouth set in a firm line. It gathers a few looks from the rest of the officers and detectives on scene, semi aghast at the uncharacteristic display.

Ten minutes later, Emily finds him leaning against the suburban. She stands at a distance behind him for several minutes before she turns on her heel, because clearly, he's not ready to talk. "Get some air. I'll deal with the Fairfax sheriff."

He doesn't even hear her walk away.

...

It takes longer than normal to get the scene secured and things under control but it gets done, and Fairfax County PD takes over for the time being. There's nothing else for them to do at that moment.

She offers to drive back to the BAU, but he refuses in typical Hotch fashion. The Suburban inches down 95 towards Quantico through the thick afternoon traffic. From the corner of her eye she can see his tightly clenched jaw and death grip on the steering wheel.

He's silent for the first twenty-five minutes of their trip save for a brusque _thanks_ when she hands him a water bottle from the side of the door.

"Are you alright?" She doesn't take her eyes off the road when she tentatively breaks the silence. She's afraid of what might be written on his face if she looks over.

_Silence._

...

Hours later, they're exhausted once again, after presenting an updated profile and following new leads that ultimately lead them nowhere yet again. They pack it in and agree to look at it with fresh eyes early the next day. Hotch expects them at 7 AM.

Emily is on her way out when she sees the light on in his office, and before she can stop herself or come up with reasons why she _shouldn't_ , she finds herself standing at the door of his office.

_Garcia wasn't lying when she said he most likely lives here._

Sure enough, he's at his desk, staring at the open file before him. She's positive he's not actually _reading_ the files, and her heart twists when her eyes float to a picture of Jack on his desk.

He doesn't say anything when he sees her. In fact, he barely acknowledges her presence.

"Want some company?"

He doesn't say yes, but doesn't say no either, just gives her a semi-blank stare. So, she slips over the threshold and drops into one of the chairs across from his desk, watching him from the corner of her eye. He snaps the file shut and rests his eyes on the heels of his hands in a rare display of emotion.

He hears his son's voice in his mind. _Daddy, do you always get the monsters?_ He's heard it over and over since the moment he found the boy's body now almost eight hours ago. Two minutes later, he finally speaks. "Drink?"

"Sure."

Hotch reaches into an obscure drawer in his desk and produces a half empty, slightly dusty, bottle of whiskey and two glasses. He fills them both, passes one to her, and holds his to his lips.

It burns her throat on the way down. She hasn't even finished her glass before he refills his. She _knows_ what's in his mind, because she's been to those dark places, too, many times before.

"We can't save them all, you know."

"I know."

**Subtle**

Things change between the two of them after Savannah and Centreville. He can't put his finger on it; she can't quite label it.

It's subtle, but it's there. A tentative understanding, or a mutual appreciation, perhaps.

He softens just enough that sometimes he even cracks a smile; her own walls come down an inch or two. She finds him and he finds her after long days (short days too, but those are far and few in between). They talk about cases, sometimes they drink. Sometimes they get takeout and put their heads together to finish the side of their job that often gets forgotten - reports, paperwork, the bureaucratic nonsense.

On the particularly bad days, they don't say anything at all.

Occasionally she brings her own bottle; sometimes they share. She's partial to vodka and gin; he prefers whiskey and scotch.

Sometimes they laugh. He (she) likes those times. He shows her pictures of Jack and she tells him about all the places she's visited while living with her mother as a teenager. With some prodding, she tells him about the ever-elusive Sin to Win Weekends in Atlantic City. When she swears him to secrecy, he laughs because she takes it _incredibly_ seriously, but he appeases her, because he'd never admit it, but a small part of him is _glad_ she shared that little secret with him instead of anybody else.

In some weirdly comforting way, it works.. And between the conversations they have (and more importantly the ones they _don't_ have, the lines and boundaries between them begin to blur.

She doesn't fight it, and he doesn't question it. Maybe they don't need to.

**Nostalgia**

It's a Wednesday night when she takes him down memory lane.

"Do you remember when we first met?"

She's caught him off guard, in the way that only Emily can. The question is seemingly simple. The answer, however, is not.

Emily's laughing, because they've been debating the best ballads of the 80's for over a half hour after giving up paperwork for the night, leaving his desk and the floor covered with file folders. She's impressed by his knowledge, because it _almost_ rivals her own. Almost.

"At the BAU?" _Surely she doesn't mean that - that would be too easy. He should know her better than that by now._

"When you worked for my mom." There's a small grin playing at the corners of her mouth, as if she's daring him.

_Maybe she is._

"From what I remember, you made quite the impression." Over time _some_ of the details have faded, but if he's being completely honest, there isn't much about their initial meeting he doesn't remember. How could he forget?

_It was his second month on the job. He's brand new, embarrassingly green and eager to please. Ambassador Prentiss takes no prisoners, and he's pretty sure what she's asking him to do is his first test. This has to be a joke._

_He's about to plead his case when they're interrupted by a piercing, exasperated voice and the methodic thump of footsteps heading their direction from the hallway. "M-O-O-O-M! I can't believe this! I am not going on my Yale tour with a babysitter!"_

_Aaron whirls around to see a slim dark haired girl tearing into the room. She's wearing a very short skirt and platform shoes, a heavy amount of dark makeup, and her hair is a wild, crimped mess semi piled on the top of her head. She's fiercely determined and on a warpath, slamming the door shut behind her._

_Ambassador Prentiss smiles sweetly at her daughter, then Aaron, and for a moment he's actually terrified of his new boss. She looks like she could take his head off and smile while doing it._

" _Actually Emily, that's why I asked to talk to you. You're going with two babysitters."_

_Emily Prentiss glares at her mother, then at him. "You've got to be kidding me." She drops her bag onto the floor and dramatically throws herself into a chair. "Are you actually freaking serious? You can never just NOT embarrass me, can you?"_

" _Agent Hotchner, this is my daughter, Emily. Emily, This is Agent Hotchner, one of our new security guards. He's going to be helping Agent Davis keep an eye on you on the Yale trip. You made quite the introduction at Brown, if I remember correctly."_

_He recognizes the resentment in the Ambassador's face when she speaks to her daughter, mainly because she's seen it before in his own father. For a brief moment, he feels a pang of sympathy._

_Her eyes widen incredulously, her face is a mix of mortification and rage. "That was a fucking accident, Mom. It's not my fault Melinda and I drank too much - "_

_The ambassador cuts her off quickly, her eyes shifting to Aaron. "Emily, dear, that's enough. I would just feel better knowing you're not getting yourself into any unnecessary predicaments while you're there."_

" _MO-O-O-M," she drags out the middle syllable again, and it's abundantly clear they've had_ many _of these arguments over time. "Why are you so fucking embarrassing?"_

_Aaron awkwardly coughs into his fist, shifting uncomfortably in the chair next to Emily._

" _Emily, your language is atrocious. I've taught you better than that." Ambassador Prentiss sits down at her desk, primly crossing her legs. "This is not a debatable matter. Agent Hotchner and Agent Davis are going with you. No ifs, ands, or buts."_

_Emily makes a dramatic show of rolling her eyes._

" _Be careful," He murmurs quietly enough so that only she can hear. "They might get stuck like that."_

_She throws a withering stare in his direction, folding her arms across her chest. "This fucking sucks."_

" _You're leaving tomorrow morning at 8 AM sharp, Emily. For the love of God, please do something about that mess on your head. And cover yourself up - you look ridiculous."_

_Emily seethes, and Aaron wonders if it's too early to request a transfer._

...

"I never did thank you for getting me out of that party." She kicks her feet up onto the chair beside her, a small grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. There's something in her voice he can't place.

"You did actually, when I carried you out of the house in New Haven. And in the car."

"Those damn fireball shots."

"It was an interesting ride home." He decides to omit the rest of the details. _Story for a different day._

She rolls her eyes sardonically. "I guess I didn't make a great first impression at Yale either."

"I think you turned out okay."

**Philadelphia**

Of all the cities they visit, Philadelphia is one of her favorites.

They're not even on a case this time. Instead, they're giving a lecture on the psychology of young serial killers to PhD psychology students at UPENN - Rossi owes an old professor friend of his a favor for proofing one of his latest books _._ They don't complain - it's practically a welcomed change from some of the emotionally tolling cases they've taken on lately.

As they wrap up the first day of the session (she can't remember a time their work day ended at 5:30 PM), everyone is in a good mood. Morgan goes to meet with a friend from Northwestern who is living in the area. JJ wants to check out some of the shops in Rittenhouse Square and drags a semi-reluctant Reid with her and promises to stop in one of the old bookstores along the way . Rossi is meeting his professor friend and his wife for dinner.

It's only when the rest of the team heads out for the evening they both realize it's just the two of them for the night.

"Don't get into too much trouble," Rossi winks as he climbs into a cab.

_As if they could._

...

She meets him in the hotel lobby twenty minutes later after a quick outfit change.

"You look nice." He notices, with hidden appreciation, she's wearing the emerald green sweater.

"You look different." She can't remember the last time she _hasn't_ seen him in a suit and tie.

He laughs - a real laugh that reaches his eyes.

As the sun goes down over the city, they walk around Independence Hall, past a few museums, down some charming cobblestone streets, and end up at Penn's Landing. It's a beautiful night; the boats are visible on the water - she wants to stop and look.

She leans over the railing, watching the boats sail past. "Do you ever think about getting out?"

"I'm a father, Prentiss. I don't have time to get out." He knows what she actually means, but going there is a topic he'd rather avoid.

She laughs softly. "Out of the BAU, I mean." Her eyes are still watching the boats.

"Sometimes." He shifts to let a family of five stand near the railing, and now he's standing close enough to her he gets a slight whiff of her honeysuckle shampoo. "For Jack. I think about going back to prosecuting." It's not a total lie, but this isn't about him, and he knows it's a test. She's waiting for his reaction. "You're thinking of leaving."

"Sometimes I consider it. There's nothing holding me back," Her eyes are still resting on the water. He wonders if that's intentional. "But that would mean leaving the team, and leaving you, and -" She cuts herself off almost instantly, as if she caught herself revealing a secret. "Nevermind," she says quickly, and even the near-dark he can see the subtle blush rising in her cheeks.

"Emily." Her first name rolls off his tongue, the three syllables that blend together so beautifully, and when she turns to face him, her heart starts to pound.

He's looking at her again - she's seen that look before. It's the one he's been giving her for the last few weeks. At first, it was after he'd had just enough liquor to feel bold. Then, it was in the mornings when she'd slide into the seat next to his at the table. She knows it. She knows the look well, because she gives him the same one.

He takes a step closer to her and now they're standing so close together she could rest her head on his chest. His hand brushes over her face, disappears into her hair and cups the back of her head. He pulls her face toward his, presses his lips to hers in a kiss.

He's gentle but commanding; his mouth covering hers. Emily kisses him back, an arm slipping around his waist as her mouth opens to his. His teeth graze against her lip with just enough pressure, his tongue explores her mouth and a small moan escapes from her. She shivers, because he's a damn good kisser, not that she's surprised.

Her forehead brushes against his; she's panting slightly. For the first time he notices how beautiful her eyes are, with the perfectly curled, long lashes. "We should probably head back before someone comes looking for us."

'You're probably right." And after he kisses her one more time, Philadelphia becomes one of his favorite cities too.

**Games**

They're playing with fire now.

Eventually, one of them will burn.

**Nothing**

_Maybe not_.

Nothing changes when they return from Philadelphia. In fact, it's like nothing ever happened at all.

_Maybe_ , she thinks as she heads down the hallway and out of the BAU, ignoring the light on in his office, _maybe it's for the better._

From his desk, he can hear the soft scrape of her shoes against the floor. He hears her quick goodbye to JJ and Reid, and as she leaves for the day, he reminds himself it's probably for the better anyway.

**Blue Moons and Old Scars**

Once in a blue moon, he wakes up in a cold sweat, and it's Foyet he sees and hears as he thrashes around his empty bed. The memories are vague - he doesn't remember much after the initial gunshot and initial plunge of the knife. He has _no_ recollection of being dumped at St. Sebastian or what happened shortly after. _Maybe he's better off that way._ The scars he's been left with, all nine of them, are like souvenirs he never asked for.

Her nightmares come too, with irritating irregularity. Most of the time, it's the old cases that haunt her. Even the ones they've solved come back to visit every once and awhile with a vengeance. Sometimes she's fifteen again, laying on her back in a cold, sterile room in Italy, her knees covered by a sheet and Matthew's hand wrapped around hers, an occasional tear falling down her cheek. The only thing she feels when she wakes after _those_ nightmares is emptiness. Those scars are on the inside.

**Second Time Around**

The team goes out for drinks on a Friday night in November, just a few weeks after Philadelphia.

It's light, fun, and by the time he arrives, she's already seated between Reid and JJ, deep in conversation.

He's always (secretly) admired the way she's been able to effortlessly solidify herself as a member of their team.. They love her, which is evident by the adoring looks Reid gives her, her instant bond with Morgan. The way she instantly clicked with JJ and Garcia. Even Rossi had taken to her quickly.

They (he) can't imagine this team without her. Which is why, despite wanting to kiss her again (and again after that), he reminds himself of all the reasons why he shouldn't. He has a bulleted list stored in his mind for safekeeping.

Distraction is a good idea. He orders a beer. She's drinking beer too, he observes casually, as her lips slide down over the neck of the bottle. _Eyes up,_ he reminds himself (he's been doing that more and more lately), and thankfully, Rossi's sudden presence in the empty seat beside him is a welcome distraction.

He doesn't talk to her much that night. Emily ends up playing darts with Morgan. No one is surprised when she absolutely decimates him, and Morgan sidles back to the table with a sheepish grin.

Three beers later, and things start to wind down. It's been a long day (a long week, if they're being honest), and they decide to pack things in for the night.

When she begins to make her exit - paying her tab, saying her goodbyes - he goes for it.

"I can walk you out. I need to get going anyway. Jack's been at Jessica's all day." Hotch offers in an even toned voice, and only he notices the subtle turn of her head, the slight upturn of the corners of her lips. _She's playing the game._

_The game that has no winners._

It's so deceptively simple that no one even questions it.

She leads the way out the bar and into the dark, breezy evening. His hand finds the small of her back, and it rests there while they walk. Maybe she doesn't notice, or maybe she doesn't mind. He'd like to think it's the latter.

He asks her about her weekend plans (she doesn't have many - _he's strangely relieved_ ); she questions if Jack has a soccer game (an _all day_ tournament, overkill for a six year old), and his hand still hasn't left her back when they've reached her car.

She clicks the button on her keys. "Thanks for the walk back. Tell Jack I said good luck. I'll see you on Monday."

And when he's quickly calculating how many hours stand between now and 8 AM on Monday when he'll see her again (it's about 57, not that he's keeping track), she steps forward, rises onto her tiptoes (because she's not wearing her regular heeled boots he normally sees her in), and kisses him.

It's chaste at first, a brush of her lips against his, her hand sliding up to cover his shoulder. It takes him by surprise but he recovers quickly. He slips an arm around her waist and licks the seam of her lips with his tongue. Her mouth opens and he deepens the kiss, using his body to press her against the car door. Her lips somehow taste familiar yet so incredibly new (because this _is_ only the second time her lips have touched his); he reaches up and cups her face with his hand and explores her mouth with his.

She's the one who finally pulls away first, her breath coming a little faster than it was just moments ago, her eyes a little brighter. "Goodnight, Hotch." She leans in and presses one more kiss to his cheek before quickly spinning around and getting in the car.

His lips burn for the next two days.

**Disaster**

They don't address the kiss ( _or_ the first one, for that matter).

That would be too complicated.

They're already complicated enough on their own as it is.

Together they might be a disaster.

**Fragile**

A few days after the team trip to the bar, they find themselves back in the air, this time to Greenville, South Carolina.

It rains from the second they deplane in South Carolina until the moment they board again for Quantico.

They work nonstop for two days to find a duo targeting dark-haired women and murdering them in their cars in seemingly public places - grocery store parking lots, playgrounds, a hiking trail. He has to actively push her out of his mind every time he sees a photograph of yet another victim.

She isn't _trying_ to avoid him, but on this trip they hardly see one another except for brief moments here and there. He handles press with JJ and works with the Greenville authorities while she teams up with Reid and Rossi to work the profiles and canvas the crime scenes.

On their third day in Greenville ( _how is it still fucking raining_ ), they have to tell a 24 year old man named Sean that his wife of six months, (the unsubs' last victim before arrested) was murdered; they've found the body for him to ID and claim. Even though they've solved the case (again), this one doesn't feel like a win.

It's Emily who breaks the news to Sean in a claustrophobic waiting room. No matter how many times it happens, being the one to do it never gets any easier. Her heart slips into her throat when Sean folds in half and sobs uncontrollably in her arms.

_Some days, her job really fucking sucks._

It's only after she lets go of Sean that she realizes he's been watching her the entire time.

**Surrender**

Much later that night, he finds her in the hotel bar, which is a generous description if he's being honest. It's more like a shelf with bottles of rail liquor on it and some bar stools thrown on the other side. _Classy_.

She's wearing an old UVA sweatshirt that has clearly seen better days, well worn and nearly threadbare in places. The glass before her is half full of clear liquid- vodka, if he had to guess - with beads of condensation sweating along the sides. _Contemplative drinking_ , he deduces.

She hasn't been there _that_ long, actually. It'd been late when they finally got back to the hotel, and after a hot shower she still wasn't able to sleep, which meant the next best thing was a drink. She barely acknowledges him when he sets his phone down beside hers on the bar, announcing his presence.

"Want some company?" He settles in the barstool next to her and absentmindedly flips through the slim drink list. It gives him something to do with his hands.. She doesn't say anything but passes her glass in his direction; an invitation for him to sit down beside her.

"How'd you find me?"

He lifts the glass to his lips and takes a long swig, setting it back down in front of her with a grimace. _It's not vodka, but a very strong (and cheap) gin._ "Lucky guess." When she doesn't answer, he tries again. There's only so many places you can be in a place like this."

"Touché" she responds dryly and takes a longer drink this time, making a similar face to his when she sets it down.

They don't talk much, at least not tonight. _There's not that much to say after this one._ The glass is refilled for them and it gets passed back and forth for more than an hour before she finally pushes it away from them both.

"You don't want to finish that?"

She doesn't look at him. Looking at him might be an invitation. An invitation she wants him to have, but doesn't necessarily want to give.

Behind her, the ridiculously out of place grandfather clock on the wall strikes eleven, and the metronomic chime every three seconds is deafening.

_One. Two. Three._

"If I leave," she has to pause, because suddenly she can't breathe. "Would you follow me?" She thinks she knows the answer to her own question.

_Four Five._

"Do you want me to follow you?" He thinks he knows the answer she's looking for.

_Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten_

"I think so."

_Eleven._ He takes the nearly empty glass and tips the rest down his throat.

"Let's go."

She takes a shaky deep breath; slowly she stands, as if testing her own footing, pushes the chair in and throws a few dollars onto the bar. She starts toward the elevator; he's right at her side, One foot in front of the other, two hundred steps, a push of two buttons, and they're alone.

They _know_ what's about to happen when they cross that line; neither of them are about to stop it.

Somewhere in the three minute, thirty eight second journey from the bar to the elevator to the eighth floor to the fourth room on the right, his hand finds hers and her hand finds his. Her fingers fit perfectly through his.

He had a feeling they would.

And finally, when they're behind another closed door in her 8th floor hotel room, in the middle of the night in South Carolina, with the rain and thunder rattling against the windows, their lips meet for the third time, and their worlds start to spin.


	2. Two

**Blush**

She presses her body against his, he pulls her closer to him to steady her on her feet. They've done this before, but this time is different. It's a slow and lush kiss; they're in no hurry. Behind closed doors they have nothing but time.

At least for a little while.

She moans in his mouth when he sweeps his tongue across her teeth and his hand winds around the back of her head, fingers tangling in her sleek hair. She deepens the kiss, sucking on his bottom lip, dueling with him for control. Their teeth clash; she cups the side of his face with her hand, his skin rough against her soft palm.

They both grow impatient -they're frantic for a few minutes; kissing and tugging at each other's clothes. She thinks he has too many layers, buttons, and zippers for this to be simple. He thinks she has too many clothes on in general. She's pulling his tie loose from his neck; his hands slide down her back and rest at the hem of her sweatshirt. When he stops kissing her for a split second she pulls away as if she's been burned; her eyes meet his questioningly.

He's waiting for her to give him permission, she realizes, and lifts her arms in an invitation.

Her sweatshirt is tossed onto the floor, along with his dress shirt and undershirt. She rids him of his pants; they find the floor along with his belt and boxers. He nearly rips off the thin shirt she's wearing underneath the sweatshirt, and that too is added to the growing pile.

"How many fucking buttons do you need," Hotch growls into her ear, impatiently navigating the four-button fly of her black jeans before pushing them down off her long legs. She laughs and lets her teeth sink onto his earlobe.

She's left in only a black lace bra and the matching black lace that covers the smooth skin of hips and between her legs. He looks at her appreciatively, running his fingers over the lace covering her chest. She backs up against the bed, pulling him along with her, and he moves them both down, cradling her back with his arm when she hits the mattress.

She blushes in his arms when his eyes trail over her body, and heat rises to her cheeks.

He must notice, because he pauses over her for a moment, kissing the pulse point of her neck, where her skin is warm and soft. "You're beautiful," he murmurs in her ear, reaching beneath her. He easily flicks the clasp of her bra open with one hand and tosses it behind him. When his hands reach down to slide the matching black lace down over her hips and down her legs, her eyes close.

Emily shivers under his gaze, and when he settles between her legs, his head bending to kiss her once more, she has to remind herself to breathe.

 _This_ is what she's been waiting for.

**Explore**

She's finally beneath him, completely naked, on her back, her knees angled up on either side of his hips, practically inviting him to fuck her. Hotch has to catch his breath before he can even formulate a coherent thought.

He takes a few more seconds to admire her, because like he told her just seconds before, she's _beautiful_.

He's certain he could die a happy man right then; despite the (many) times he's pictured this moment, it's better than anything he ever anticipated. Her skin flushes pink, a contrast against its usual pale and her chest is rising and falling in a steady staccato-like rhythm . He lowers himself down over her, bending his head to kiss her, and she kisses him back like she's been doing it all her life.

His body is a welcomed (and deliciously unfamiliar) weight on top of her, and she savors the feeling of him because she's ached for this (him, really) for so long. Her fingers wrap around his biceps and above her, he's watching her face with unusual tenderness, so she kisses him again, pulling him close to her.

He takes his time exploring her, wanting to remember every dip and curve, every mark, and every inch of her porcelain-like skin. Reverently, he moves his lips down her neck, her collarbones, and over her breast, his head moving between the two mounds and kissing her right over her heart along the way. He sucks one of her nipples into his mouth, while caressing the other in his free hand. _She likes that_ , judging by the sharp inhale that emits from her and how her fingers tangle in his hair.

He continues his path down her body, lips smoothing over her ribcage and then the soft skin of her stomach. When he parts her knees, they fall to the sides and her lungs burn for more oxygen because she's thought of _this_ particular moment for a while now too. She struggles to breathe; to think, and when she looks down at him, he's still kissing her stomach, until all of a sudden he's not.

She yelps when his mouth is no longer on her anymore.

"Impatient, are we?" He pauses for just another second before his hand disappears between her legs, and he hasn't even done anything yet but she lets out a keening cry.

When his fingertips are feather light between her legs, Emily breathes his name - his first name. _Aaron_ , dragging out the second syllable. He slides a finger into her, then two, and realizes it's the first time he's ever heard her _say_ his first name.

He increases the pressure of his thumb on her slick skin and moves in sweeping circles. Her legs spread wider for him as her hips lift off the bed, an unintelligible sound escaping from her throat that makes him almost uncomfortably hard. It only takes a few deliberate pumps of his fingers inside of her with a bit more pressure from his thumb before she cries out and every muscle in her body tenses, holding taut for a very long moment before she starts shaking. He strokes her through not once but twice, one right after the other. She rides it out against his hand and when the shaking turns into a tremble, he's right beside her, watching her intensely.

**Synchronicity**

Emily's still in a daze when he settles over her again, his hands on either side of her head. He's kissing her now - her shoulders, her chest, her neck - as she comes back to earth after the two back to back orgasms he's just given her.

His skin on hers feels like fire; his weight nearly makes her dizzy. He kisses her lips with bruising force.

Hotch takes both of her hands and presses them into the mattress above her head, giving a gentle squeeze, then slowly presses himself inside of her. She inhales sharply ( _it's been awhile since she's done this)_ , and he covers her mouth with his once more and kisses her until he's fully sheathed.

"Open your eyes."

He waits until brown eyes meet. "You feel _amazing,"_ he whispers, his words just above her heart.

He doesn't move for several seconds, because it's been awhile for him too, and he doesn't want to blow it before anything even happens . Within moments, she's lifting her hips against him, impatient. One of her long legs curls around his back; her hand drifts to his hair.

" _Aaron, please. I need you to move."_ it comes out as a whimper.

He teases with small shifts of his hips.

" _Now_ ," she demands.

When he finally begins to rock into her, slowly at first, she winds her arms around his neck and digs her heel into his hip.

It's better than she'd imagined. He's as meticulous in bed as he is in every other aspect of his life - his movements are deliberate, well timed, coordinated. She knows she won't last long like this, but she scrapes her nails down his back and lifts her hips in time with each thrust of his.

When she's close (judging by the noises she's making), he pins her hands above her head again with one hand and with his other hand reaches down between them where they're joined, and rubs those broad, sweeping circles over her slick skin with his thumb. He takes her over the edge once more before he thrusts into her one last time with a punctuating drive of his hips. When he finally spills into her, he collapses on top of her with a groan, his skin damp and his heart pounding against hers.

He's still inside of her when he brushes a wayward lock of hair from her eyes and they share a long, languid kiss.

**Ache**

Emily dozes off in his arms, Hotch's body curled around hers and their fingers linked together.

Her muscles ache in places she hasn't felt in awhile, and she can already tell she's going to be sore tomorrow.

The sound of the rain pelting against the windows of their hotel room lulls her to sleep in his arms.

He tucks his chin over her shoulder (he gets a whiff of honeysuckle in her hair) and kisses her temple. While he falls asleep, he wonders if she'll agree it wasn't a huge mistake.

Hotch wakes her just hours later with a series of kisses down her spine and over her hip. She can already feel the mounting soreness between her legs. She rolls onto her back and relaxes into the mattress and draws her knees up, turning her head to kiss him.

He has other ideas and she realizes what he intends to do when he throws the sheet off, which sends an instant chill through her. He winks at her, hands on her shins. "I didn't get a chance to do this last night," his voice is low; her body instantly aches for him once again.

He drapes one of her knees over his shoulder and then the other, spreading her open. Lowering his head, his lips find her inner thigh, and then the other. She digs her nails into the sheets and twists the fabric in her hands, watching him practically worship her.

First his fingers brush over her, once, twice, three times until she lifts her hips against his face, impatient. She's certain she can't wait much longer when she finally - _finally_ \- feels the warm press of his lips against her, her words are lost in her throat, and her legs shake on his shoulders at the contact.

The pressure of his tongue against her is almost more than she can handle, but he's slow and deliberate, taking his time and working her up slowly, with seemingly practiced ease. Broad strokes here, little flicks there. She undulates beneath him; he keeps one hand on her stomach to keep her still. The familiar tightening in her lower abdomen is almost immediate, she's _close_ , she moans into the air, but as soon as she's about to come, he pulls back, despite her pleas for him to _keep going_.

He keeps her on edge like that for what seems like _ever_ , repeating the almost tormenting pattern of building her up and holding her off. When she finally falls apart (it's one sweep of his tongue that gets her there), she throws her head back and she moans his name for the _third_ time. Her legs tighten around his shoulders and her back arches off the bed so high he thinks she might break.

…

After Hotch goes to his own room to pack and freshen up, Emily rinses away the evidence of him and her in the shower. Even though the soapy water swirls down the drain, she can't erase him from her mind.

She gets dressed (the same jeans with the buttons from yesterday, she notices with a wry grin) and hurriedly meets the rest of the team in the lobby to head to the airfield. She gets coffee (maybe some caffeine will help her get it together) and pretends not to notice when he finally joins the rest of them.

He's as professional as ever, slightly aloof, and there's no difference between the Hotch she knew yesterday and the one she knows now. Not that she expects anything different. She just barely acknowledges his presence when he strolls past her with a casual headnod and "Morning, Prentiss."

 _Prentiss._ She feels a small pinch of guilt and ignores the nagging ache that blooms in her chest.

Maybe sleeping with him will be a mistake.

This game they're playing, she reminds herself, rarely has a winner.

**Little Lies**

It's a one time thing, out of her system now, she lies to herself on the plane home from Greenville a few hours later. She sits with her back to him so he can't see the blush that rises in her cheeks when her mind drifts back ten or so hours.

She spends the entire flight pushing it (him) out of her mind. It doesn't matter, because the soreness between her legs is a constant reminder on its own, and when she closes her eyes, the only thing she can see (and feel) is his body against hers, and that goddamn mouth of his.

It can't be anything more than what it was.

It's out of her system now. His too. It won't happen again.

**Bigger Little Lies**

Except it does happen again, this time in St. Louis less than a week later.

She gave herself a stern talking-to before they landed that under no circumstances she would end up in his room (or he in hers). _That_ quickly goes out the window as she's hardly gotten to her room, out of her work pants and into something more comfortable when she hears the knock.

She's on top of him this time, and from this angle, he feels bigger than he did last time (if that's possible), and she curses inwardly because she's going to be sore yet again tomorrow. He seems to appreciate the view; she observes casually as she rocks her hips over him, back and forth, setting the pace and speed. His hands smooth over her waist, coming to rest on her breasts, cupping their weight and leaning up to pull one of her nipples in his mouth.

She comes twice riding him before he's even close to finishing. She says a silent prayer towards the ceiling that this hotel has thick walls because her first orgasm hits her fast, and she hasn't even recovered from the first before it happens again.

When she's still coming down from her second high, he flips them over easily, pressing her into the mattress. She's on her back now (he likes when she's on her back, too) and he can control the depth and pace of his movements, and he comes hard after a minute of forceful thrusts that make her breasts bounce in his face and her back arch off the bed.

It's better than the first time, but _this will be the last time_.

**Spoiler**

St. Louis isn't the last time, either.

**Secrets**

Two can keep a secret, right?

No feelings, she tells herself, because when you start having feelings, the secrets are inevitably revealed.

No feelings, he tells himself, because he's learned over time that it's easier to be lonely without secrets.

No feelings, they tell themselves as they acquiesce to each other once more in the middle of the night in yet another dark hotel room, one more secret between them.

**Education**

In Orlando, he learns about one of her hidden talents. She takes him in her mouth, on her knees, in the hotel room, and he sees stars when he hits the back of her throat. He fists a hand in her hair and clenches the other around the cheap curtains as her mouth takes him in and out. When she looks up at him, eyes ringed with dark eye makeup, red lips wrapped around him, her hair askew, he knows he's done for, and he spills into her mouth with little warning.

...

It's like a monsoon in Hoboken a week later when he holds her up with one arm, her back against the wall by the window looking out over the Hudson River. The room is lit up by a flash of lightning, and he hooks her leg around his waist while nipping at her shoulder. He learns just how easily she bruises. She already has finger-shaped marks on her hipbones from the night before, and now she'll have them on her shoulders too -they'd barely made it through the door of his hotel room before he'd turned her around and over the bed. _He makes a mental note to be more gentle next time, because they don't bother denying there will be a next time._

...

Syracuse isn't one of his favorite places (hers either, for that matter). But they are together yet again. It's almost a given by now. She goes to his room with a few beers tucked under her arm, and they eat room service in bed while watching reruns of _Frasier_ on the hotel TV. It doesn't take long for him to know _something_ is off, but she's more reticent than usual, so he doesn't push it.

When she finally sinks down on him after a _very_ long (and unsuccessful) day of trying to hunt one more killer (an arsonist this time) he wonders if she'll ever trust him enough to tell him what goes on in her mind instead of just what's going on around her.

He cups her breasts in his hands and lets her have her way. She rocks her hips in a fluid, slow wave until her muscles start to flutter, then tighten around him. She gathers speed and she feels his hands tighten around her hips, indicating that he too is close. And when she is about to break, he sits up and pulls her to him, capturing her mouth with his.

When they eventually come (first her, with him close behind), she stifles her own moans with her lips pressed to his, with his heart pounding against hers.

…

They're in Salt Lake City when he (finally) asks her about her tattoo. He's seen it before. In fact, he's looked at it each time he's seen her naked. He's lost track of that number by now. On the blade of her left shoulder, right over the bone, is a series of three arrows, pencil thin, the tips fluting out, along with the word _inoltrare_ in a delicate script that he recognizes instantly as her own handwriting.

"It's been _years_ ," her voice is low in his ear when he asks; she's laying on her back with their fingers laced together in the small space between them in the bed. "I got it in Italy when I was 16, right before I left. It means _forward_." She then says the Italian pronunciation, and his cock twitches at the sound of the words rolling off her tongue.

"Why did you leave?"

"It was time to go." There's longing in her voice, unmistakable but distant. He immediately senses there's more to the story than what she's telling him. It's what she doesn't say that tells him what he needs to know about her time in Italy, for the time being.

After several minutes, he turns her over to look once more, because he's fascinated by the indelible black of the ink against her skin. In the moonlight, it's barely visible, but he knows where to find it. He kisses it three times - one kiss for each arrow- and gets a subtle whiff of vanilla on her skin.

"Did it hurt?"

She can feel his eyes on her; she stares at the wall instead. "Other things have hurt worse."

**Emotional Souvenirs**

They have lots of conversations, just not the ones that matter.

Between briefings in the bullpen, friendly banter in the jet, and the day to day casual exchanges, there are so many words between them she sometimes forgets what they're actually doing behind closed doors. It's all so normal, until it's not.

There are no definitions to what they're doing. It's better that way, she tells herself. Definitions will just cause problems. Definitions aren't practical.

Maybe if they could give it a definition - a label - or some kind of meaning- they could stop for good, file it away, and move on. Put it in the past and leave an emotional souvenir in its place.

She has plenty of emotional souvenirs, some she's proud of, some not so much.

He might just be her next one.

**Decency**

In Tuscaloosa, their unsub is a twenty-four year old woman named Emma who is systematically murdering the rapists of women in her sexual assault support group, including her own. Sometimes, motivation needs no explanation. While Emily doesn't feel sympathy for the criminals they're trained to profile and find, _occasionally_ she can understand their reasoning.

When Emma is arrested after a grueling four day search, it's a twist of irony as the handcuffs lock around the young woman's scarred wrists.

They need a confession, insists the Tuscaloosa detective they've been working with for the duration of the case. He's had little luck interrogating Emma, or getting any form of admission. Emily's not surprised, judging by his brusque techniques, and Hotch agrees to interrogate Emma from a different angle. _That's what you people are here for_ , the frustrated detective practically spits in their faces when he emerges, unsuccessful.

Forty-five minutes later, they get their confession. Emily watches Hotch with rapt attention from the one-way mirror just outside the interrogation room. When Emma gives up the location of the remaining 4 men she's killed (on top of one they've just found) there are tears streaming down the young woman's face. _It's over_.

"Agent Hotchner?" Emma's voice shakes over the rattle of the handcuffs in her lap as Hotch stands up to exit the room. "You're a decent man, you know."

Emily swallows the lump in her throat she's been holding since the morning, glad for the one way glass ensuring he couldn't see her face.

…

They depart the Tuscaloosa Police Station a few hours later. Emily watches Emma be loaded into a police car transporting her to the county prison.

 _The world_ , she thinks, _is a fucking unfair place._

...

Later that night, she lays in the dark with her head on his chest, the white bedsheet wrapped loosely around them.

"You're thinking about Emma." It's not a question. He knows. Hotch kisses her temple and traces patterns on her bare skin with his index finger, coming to rest over the arrows on her shoulder blade.

"She had a point, you know." Her voice is barely over a whisper.

"What do you mean?" His fingers drum against her arm.

"Not all men are like you."

"Like what?"

"Decent."

**Deny**

They are surprisingly adept at keeping things on the down low, to her surprise, and his too.

No one suspects a thing. _Better for everyone involved_ , she reminds herself when she erases yet another night off her skin with some cheap hotel shower gel, and makes a half-hearted attempt to get him out of her mind.

It's been getting harder to remind herself that this game they're playing is eventually going to end, without a winner, because that's how these things go.

Each morning (after) when they regroup and debrief, she puts a few feet of distance between them and pretends it hasn't been mere hours since she left his bed. It's as if nothing ever happened at all, and no one is the wiser.

It's easier to deny it to herself when everyone else is blissfully unaware.

**Contemplation**

She wonders just how long they can keep this up, or who will get hurt first, as they fly home from Lansing a few weeks later.

He sits across from her on the plane; she pretends to read, turning pages every few minutes, but her attention is far from the book. For the last fifteen minutes, she's watched him pick up his phone, type a few words, read it, shake his head, and put his phone down.

When her phone vibrates in her lap, her suspicion is confirmed. Her eyes narrow at the short message. _He's never asked her to come over before, and it's certainly a terrible idea._

Against her better judgment, she responds with two letters - _ok_ , and instantly pushes her feelings aside because, well, Lansing sucked, and she doesn't want to feel anything for awhile.

They're sure everyone else is gone from the parking lot before she follows him home to Alexandria, because they're still keeping secrets and playing with hearts.

Seconds after he unlocks the door, they're a storm of limbs, dark hair, and clashing teeth. His hands are greedy; hers are desperate. They don't even make it out of all of their clothes - her bra is falling off one arm; he's still wearing his button down, his tie pulled loose, a few of the buttons ripped off.

Within minutes they're on the ground, and he fucks her on the living room floor. It's hard and fast, and when his muscles finally tense, she's right there with him, falling over the edge.

Hours later, when he's fast asleep on the couch, she twists out of his embrace and slips quietly out the door into the night without a look back. She wears bruises on her hips and knees for a week afterward. The ones on her heart have been there for awhile. They're not going away anytime soon.

**Stay**

He wakes up alone one morning in Providence. This is the third time in a row she hasn't stayed.

Emily doesn't give him a reason in the fleeting moments he has with her right before the team reconvenes in the hotel lobby.

In fact, she doesn't acknowledge his presence at all until they're seated around a conference table, almost an hour later. They've been going at victimology for awhile - hoping to give something - _anything_ \- to the Providence Police Department to help them get to the bottom of this case.

She's only half paying attention when she realizes he's even talking to her.

" _Prentiss?"_ His tone suggests this isn't the first time he's had to say her name, and she suddenly has five sets of eyes on her. Morgan slides his coffee cup in her direction and JJ quickly asks if she's alright. She appreciatively takes a sip of Morgan's coffee and placates JJ - of _course_ she's fine - _it's not like she can tell them the truth, anyway._

"Sorry," she says distractedly, flipping a page in the file she hasn't even looked at since they sat down. "What did you say?"

Hotch repeats himself, his patience wearing thin. She recovers quickly as if nothing even happened, and for the time being, everyone's attention switches back to their task at hand.

He makes a mental note to finally bring it up later that night.

...

"You could stay," Hotch says much later as she rests at his side, her body still limp against his, almost a full hour after he'd made her come for a third time. This time was in the shower, with her back pressed against the cool marble, the spray beating down on them both and nearly flooding the bathroom floor.

He wasn't going to bring it up after the day they had, but against his better judgment he does. It's an immediate regret as her body tenses against him.

"That'd be a waste of the BAU's hotel accommodations budget." She sighs into his chest, her voice laced with a trace of sadness that doesn't go unnoticed.

Hotch laughs softly, tightening his arm around her back. "I write the BAU budget, you know." He presses a kiss to her dark head. "They have plenty of money. Trust me."

Emily threads her fingers through the dark hairs on his chest. "It's better if I don't."

"Em-" He attempts to argue, but she's too quick for him and she's all of a sudden straddling his waist, the sheet thrown to the side.

"Stop talking," she murmurs, rocking her hips and capturing his lips with hers, rendering him speechless.

Seven hours later, he wakes up alone again.

...

Hotch corners her in the hotel lobby, coming up behind her as she gets a cup of coffee. "Emily."

She whirls around, some coffee splashing out of the cup and onto her dark blouse. "Jesus Christ, Hotch. You scared me."

He immediately notices the dark circles under her eyes and passes her a napkin to blot the coffee off her shirt. "Why did you leave?" It comes out more harshly than he intended, and he sees the flash of indignation across her face.

"Hotch," she begins, looking around to ensure no one is within earshot.

"Answer my question, Emily."

"I couldn't sleep. I went for a drink and took my key instead of yours."

He's about to call her out - It's a bold faced lie, and they both know it, but Morgan and Reid are approaching, and she stiffens at the sight of their teammates approaching.

"Waking up next to you makes it harder to take back." She turns on her heel sharply, moving away from him as quickly as she can. His eyes remain glued to the back of her head as he sips his own coffee, wondering just what have they gotten themselves into.

**History**

"Hotch."

Immediately, he knows something is wrong.

It's _late_ when he looks up from the blizzard of paperwork he's been slowly chipping away at for the last several hours. He hadn't even heard her on the stairs. She's wrapped in a thick black jacket that engulfs her body, making her look much smaller; her hair is wet (it's been raining _nonstop_ for the last few days); her eyes are blank. _Something is wrong._

The scene feels eerily familiar.

Emily stands in the doorframe, still as a statue. Her face is a collage of ambivalence and something that looks oddly like relief. "John Cooley is dead."

_It takes thirty seconds before he makes the connection._

_Oh._ John Cooley. The Vatican. Father Silvano. _Yes, he remembers now._

There had always been more to that story than what she'd chosen to tell him. That much he knows. Then again, things had been _much_ different then. He'd watched from afar as she leaned on Dave and Morgan for support during the days she'd spent mourning her friend while trying to find answers about his death. He certainly hadn't been much help - only stood in her way until he'd finally pulled a few strings right before it was too late.

That was before they started gambling with each others' hearts.

"What happened?"

"I got a call from the DC police about an hour ago. He .. they … his neighbor found him dead in his apartment. They're thinking it was a heart attack but because of … everything … they want to look into it."

"What do you need?" He already knows he won't like her answer.

"I want to check it out." Her voice trembles. "I need to … know …" Emily trails off, because she's not even sure what she needs at this point, except that she wants to get the _hell_ out of his office. Why she even came in the first place, she's not sure. _Ask for forgiveness later_.

"Do you think that's a good idea?" he speaks too soon, and she recoils as if she's been slapped.

She bristles at the unintentional judgement in his voice. It _is_ a bad idea, she knows that much, but it's John, and though she owes _him_ nothing, she can't just let it go.

She turns sharply on her heel, heading toward the door. "Nevermind. Forget it."

"Emily."

Her back stiffens; she doesn't turn around, but shifts her weight from foot to foot.

"I'm sorry. That was out of line. Take the time you need. If I can be of any help - "

Her eyes meet his for a brief second. "Just please keep this between us."

She's gone before he can even come up with a response.

…

They get the report from the coroner five days later.

John's death is ruled an overdose. In all honesty, Emily's not surprised. She's known him long enough to know his demons didn't disappear when they arrested Father Silvano that night in Georgetown. Despite her feelings towards him, a small piece of her heart erodes as she looks through the report.

She avoids Hotch (and the team) the rest of the afternoon and takes solace at her desk, burying herself in a few hours of work. It's only when she hears the scrape of shoes down the steps does she take her eyes off the screen she's been staring at. She doesn't look up, but she doesn't have to because he's now standing at the side of her desk, shifting from foot to foot.

"Emily."

Looping a piece of dark hair behind her ear, she lifts her head to meet his gaze. The concern is there, clear as day, along with something else she can't place - curiosity, maybe? _She never did tell him the full story._

"You should go home. You've been here for hours."

"You should take your own advice."

He doesn't miss the bite in her tone. "I saw the report. I'm sorry about John." He pauses for a moment, before lowering his tone. Is there anything I can do?"

 _If that isn't a loaded question._ "No. I'm just finishing up here and I'm heading out. Been a long day."

"You want to get some dinner … or something?" It's a long shot, but he goes for it anyway.

She laughs, but she's not smiling. "That seems out of our wheelhouse, don't you think?" Part of her wishes he'd just … leave her alone.

What she's saying isn't technically wrong, and the brutal honesty stings more than he thought it would. " Figured I'd save you the trouble." And, before he can stop himself, the words fall out. "We've all heard about your cooking anyway … so it's the least I can do."

She blinks twice, and for the first time in a week she attempts something that resembles a smile. "I appreciate the concern, Hotch, but I'll be fine. You've done more than enough already." She shuts the lid of her computer and slips into her jacket. "Really."

**Revelations**

He shows up at her door a few hours later with a large brown paper bag under his arm.

"You shouldn't have come all this way." She's wearing a loose sweater, black leggings, and slippers. His first observation is that she looks like hell - pale, with dark circles under her eyes.

"Thought you might be hungry. Haven't seen you eat much all week." On second thought, he realizes he hasn't seen her eat _anything_ all week.

"Hotch," Emily begins, her voice laced with uncharacteristic exhaustion. "I'm really not in the mood. I just want to have a drink and go to bed."

"Can't drink on an empty stomach." He shifts the bag from one arm to the other.

"Really, this isn't necessary." She crosses her arms over her chest, and even though he's seen her in much less, she suddenly wishes she had on a thicker sweater.

"Emily, it's just dinner. You can kick me out as soon as we're done. I promise."

She hesitates a moment, then finally concedes because he's almost as stubborn as she is. He's not going anywhere; she's not off the hook. She opens the door a little wider. "Only if we can watch Seinfeld while we eat."

"Deal."

...

After some of the best Mediterranean food she's had in a very long time ( _and_ the most she's eaten all week), she finally tells him the full story of John Cooley.

 _There are some things he doesn't (and shouldn't) know._ She wasn't planning on telling him, certainly not now. But he's there, in her apartment, and they're suddenly joking over sitcom reruns and falafel (two of her favorite things). It feels so _normal_ and it's enough for her to feel _something_ besides the nagging ache she's been suppressing since last week.

Despite the relative ease of it all, it's what _isn't_ said that hangs over them _._ She knows he's suspicious - he's been glancing in her direction every few moments since she let him in her apartment almost two hours ago. She feels a small pang of guilt- He's done all he can to make the last few days even remotely tolerable for her and she's tired of pretending everything is fine.

It's only as he clears away the takeout containers and refills her wine glass that she works up the nerve to _finally_ tell him.

"There's something you should know." She's hesitant; this might be what finally pushes him away.

Even though it's been twenty some years, it's difficult to find the right words, or know where to start. Some of it he's pieced together over time- her struggle to fit in, living in Italy with her mom. He's seen her yearbook picture; he knows about the rebellious streak that came after Italy - he witnessed that first hand for a period of time. But he listens with rapt attention, his eyes never leaving her, despite her inability to meet his.

"We moved around a lot when I was a kid, because of my mom's postings." She swallows hard; eyes searching the wall beyond his head for something - anything - to focus on - besides his face "When you're fifteen, that's all you want, and you'll do almost anything."

 _Anything_. It makes her cringe, because if she closes her eyes, she's back in the dark alley in Rome, the air thick with cigarette smoke and John smelling like cheap wine, sloppily kissing her neck, hands fumbling with the button on her jeans.

"I got pregnant." She draws her knees up to her chest, feeling very small, and she twists the hem of her sleeve in her fingers. "John was obviously not happy, because … well … " she trails off. "Yet he's the one who insisted nothing would happen. But I couldn't keep it."

Hotch's throat instantly feels thick, because he has a sickening feeling he knows where she's headed..

"Matthew found a doctor; he took me there, and he held my hand the whole time." Emily pushes her hair behind her ear absentmindedly. "It only took ten minutes. It was quick."

She looks up from her lap, and for the first time since she's started talking, her eyes meet his. "I still remember every second of those ten minutes."

"Emily," he starts, reaching for her hand, which she pulls away.

"They've advanced the technology over the years, or so I've heard. I guess that's a good thing … for all the fifteen year olds who get knocked up in Italy while living with their diplomat mother." She laughs bitterly, pressing her hands over her eyes as if scrubbing the memory out of her brain.

"You shouldn't have gone through that alone."

"I wasn't alone. I had Matthew … but … Matthew was really messed up. John was too … in a different way. We all were... We were this little messed up triangle. It was bound to end badly … no matter what." She rakes a hand through her hair, eyes searching his face, looking for judgement, disgust, _anything_ , but that isn't what she finds.

Instead, he looks almost regretful, his mouth pressed into a thin line. "Emily, I'm so sorry."

"Don't be. It's not something that comes up in casual conversation," she shrugs. "It feels like a lifetime ago … and sometimes it feels like it was yesterday."

"You made the right choice." Hotch silently admonishes himself for never connecting the dots awhile ago. Maybe it explained some of the Emily he'd met all those years ago in the Ambassador's office.

She looks surprised. "No one's ever told me that before." She then realizes the only other person who knows about _any_ of this (besides Matthew and John, of course) is Rossi, but she leaves that small detail to herself.

"It's true." This time when he reaches for her hand, she doesn't pull away. "Sometimes we're put in impossible situations with no easy answer. We do the best we can and keep moving forward. It sounds like that's what you did, because you had no other choice."

He's thinking of Foyet, Haley, and Jack, of course. Her fingers squeeze around his. The right words never come, but for once, words aren't needed at all.

**Peace**

Hours later, Emily awakens to the sound of rain hitting the windows. Her eyes adjust to the dim light from the television, still on, the low hum of late night infomercials shaking her from her sleep-induced haze.

It's _late_ … or is it early? She opens her eyes a bit more, squinting at the clock; she can just barely make out 1:58 AM. Next to her, Hotch is sound asleep, his legs outstretched on the coffee table, head resting on a pillow, his arm tucked beneath her. _They'd fallen asleep_. She can't even remember dozing off, but there's a blanket over both of them and a pillow wedged under her back.

She can't bring herself to wake him, and she's exhausted. Maybe the last few nights of minimal sleep have finally caught up with her.

When she settles back at his side, her head tucked against his chest, she feels a strange sense of peace as the rain lulls her to sleep once again.

**Ponder**

They're giving a profile in Akron (an internet predator this time) when he decides fucking her behind closed doors in shitty hotel rooms isn't enough. He's known for awhile now, if he's being truly honest with himself.

He knows her body better than he knows his own at this point. He's learned some other things over the last few months. She carries her baggage well - probably better than he carries his own. She's complicated, stubborn, untrusting and even cynical. Despite that, she's damn near brilliant at her job, invaluable to their team (and to him), and to lose her would be a devastating loss.

He doesn't just want to fuck her. He wants to love her - hell, he's certain he already does.

It's not part of the rules, but a risk he's willing to take, even if the odds are against him.

Even if it could be their demise.

**Stay Part 2**

When Hotch wakes up in Akron the next morning, Emily's still curled beside him. There's about six inches of space in the bed between them, an invisible boundary she hasn't given him permission to cross, at least not yet.

But she's still there.

It's a start. He'll take it.

**Nerve**

Maybe they should work backwards and start with dinner. A real dinner, one that's served on real plates in a restaurant with normal conversation, instead of styrofoam containers surrounded by file folders of deranged criminals.

It goes against all the rules of their game.

When he finally works up the nerve to ask, (back in Quantico a few days later), he finds her brewing coffee on a gloomy Tuesday afternoon on a rare, but well-deserved, quiet day in the BAU.

When he asks if she'd like to have dinner with him next week (because he's headed to Austin for a conference with Rossi in a few days) her eyebrows disappear into her hairline for a brief fleeting second, and her cheeks turn a shade of pink he's never seen before _._

He rambles nervously, because silence might make her change her mind, and when she eventually nods her head in agreement, he feels something oddly similar to relief.

"How's 7? I can pick you up."

She agrees, and forgets the mug of coffee on the counter when she makes her exit back to her desk.

He damn near smiles for the rest of the day.

**Cease**

They take risks every day.

They acknowledge it, process it, categorize it. It's part of their job - practically second nature at this point. It's relatively simple to do in theory. But entirely different when in practice.

Three days after Hotch and Rossi return from their conference in Austin, the DC Narcotics squad contacts the BAU for support on a drug raid in Manassas. It's not their usual case, but Morgan owes a favor to a friend in the DEA and things are somewhat slow.

Emily has a bad feeling about this going badly from the second they arrive at the abandoned storage shed. Hotch and Morgan lead the raid while the rest of the team provides tactical support from a distance, ready to go in if things go downhill.

The entire thing is seamless - and it shouldn't be. Something just _isn't_ right. It's too quiet … too _easy_.

Within minutes, it's abundantly clear they're being set up, and it's too late when they discover the place has been rigged to blow up. _Run_ , one of the narcotics squad members yells, and it's pure pandemonium for twenty three agonizing seconds.

She watches in pure horror as the building goes up in flames, and her world stops and everything goes dark.

**Run**

Morgan walks away with nothing but scrapes, a few stitches from a piece of shrapnel, and a perforated eardrum. _He'll be fine_.

Hotch, on the other hand, is a completely different story. He's taken to the hospital with a serious concussion and loss of consciousness, second degree burns on his arms, and smoke inhalation. Rossi drives her to the hospital, and if the look on his face is any indication of awareness, she's certain their secret won't be a secret for much longer.

_It doesn't matter anyway._

The doctors say he's lucky, but he's gotten lucky before (Foyet suddenly comes to her mind) and she can't help but question if next time his luck will run out.

_There's always a next time in their line of work - it's not a question of if, but when._

She sits beside him in the hospital, never taking her eyes off of him. It feels nauseatingly familiar - she's been in this same spot before - but this time the knot in her stomach isn't fear of him not waking up, it's dread for when he does.

When he does wake up hours later, the chair next to his bed is empty.

**Gone**

_I can't do this anymore,_ she tells him in the dark vestibule of her apartment building several days later when he's home from the hospital.

She's glad she can't see his face when she turns away, her breath visible in the bitterly cold air.

If he saw hers, he'd see the tears glistening in her eyes.

Emily repeats it to herself over and over, as if she'd forget. _You can't do this. You can't do this. This has gone too far. This has gone too far._

She can't do this anymore. Not when she could lose him. She's almost lost him twice now.

She wouldn't recover if she lost him again.


	3. Three

**A/N** : My apologies for the delay - I was REALLY hoping to have this up at the end of June, but life got in the way and somehow within the last two months or so I moved across a few state lines and got a new job AND bought a house, renovated it, and moved, so things have been crazy to say the least, and continue to be. Here is part 3 of 3. Enjoy <3 

**Fallacy**

Three weeks later, she still sees his face when she closes her eyes. At first it’s easy to compartmentalize, because Hotch is on medical leave for two weeks, and things are overall pretty quiet at the BAU. There’s a few cases - local ones - Baltimore, Woodbridge, Arlington - nothing too far, and it’s a much needed relief for all of them. 

Emily attempts to act normal at work despite the pestering ache in her chest. She jokes with Morgan, discusses nerdy sci-fi movies with Reid. She debates Rossi over wine and pasta pairings, and gently brushes Garcia and JJ aside when they attempt to set her up (again) with Mick Rawson. Apparently he’s been asking about her.  _ Great. _

When Hotch returns, he’s cold and terse to all of them and seemingly a shell of himself. 

He spends most of his time in his office, spending as little time in their presence as possible **.** Everyone else chalks it up to (some post-traumatic stress from the accident and stays out of his way, hoping with time he’ll return to his old self. Except, he doesn’t. 

Rossi, a bit more astute, seems to sense something else might be off, and starts asking the questions Emily can’t quite answer. She starts to avoid Rossi too, because he’s just a  _ little  _ too curious for her liking and seems to sense her unease just might have something to do with the current situation. Rossi is, however, the only one who has any luck with getting through to Hotch, and makes it his personal mission to figure out the sudden shift.

On more than one occasion, Emily completely avoids the older man’s eyes each time he descends the steps from Hotch’s office, shaking his head and sitting down at his desk with a heavy sigh. On those days, the guilt starts to creep in and her mind starts to race.

**Enough**

Another three weeks pass. His body heals relatively quickly from the accident (he’s still a little stiff because he’s not 25 anymore) but his heart and mind are another story. Things improve minimally at work, but only because it was starting to become blatantly obvious  _ something _ was off. He acknowledges her presence and works with her on cases when he has to, does the bare minimum for the sake of the team. There’s no denying the shift, yet everyone else is seemingly in the dark as to the real reason why. Even Rossi has backed off a bit.

She doesn’t blame him. How can she? As she’s known, the game has no winners, only losers. He partners with Morgan in the field, and  _ that _ is somewhat of a recipe for disaster - they butt heads frequently now, clashing over tactical issues and profiles and case decisions. Emily is often left to diffuse a disgruntled Derek each time he clashes with Hotch.

On the forty-sixth day after she stood outside his house, ending  _ whatever _ they never claimed to be, she knows she’s made a big mistake. 

...

At 10:39 PM later evening, she texts him -  _ we need to talk _ . At 11:43, he opens his front door, looking worse for wear, but lets her in after a brief pause and nothing more. He looks equal parts rumpled, dazed, and uncharacteristically baffled at her presence. “I hope I didn’t wake you.” 

“You didn’t.” Hotch doesn’t mention the fact that sleep is somewhat of an anomaly these days. Instead, he crosses his arms over his chest and looks her up and down. He quickly observes how tired and drained she looks. “What are you doing here?” 

Emily scrapes the ground with the toe of her shoe. “I don’t know.” She half expects him to shut the door in her face, but he doesn’t, instead opening it wider and lets her in. 

The house is eerily quiet. She looks around expectantly, eyeing the half-finished art projects on the kitchen table, a soccer ball in the corner, Jack’s backpack slung across a chair, a few wayward cups and plates that haven’t quite found a home. 

“Jack is at a friend’s. 6th birthday sleepover,” he says quickly, stuffing his hands in his pockets as she peers around the kitchen, turning in a slow circle.“Do you want a glass of wine?” 

She shakes her head. “I shouldn’t. I have to drive home.” On second thought, maybe it would take the edge off. “Actually, a glass of wine sounds good.” 

He nods stiffly, pouring her a glass of something red (he’d purchased it with her in mind a few days before he almost got blown up) and a glass of whiskey for himself.

Emily sits on his couch, picking at what’s left of her fingernails, wine glass perched on the coffee table. Hotch’s eyes don’t leave the television, which is muted but playing an old Superbowl from the 90’s.  _ Interesting choice,  _ she muses inwardly. He’s not actually watching it though, she’s noticed. He has his glass of whiskey in both hands, never actually taking a sip. His right knee just barely brushes her left. 

“Why are you here, Emily?” 

After five full minutes of silence, her voice is small. “I think I made a mistake.” 

**Absolution**

She’s still tearing at her fingernails, taking a sip of wine every few minutes to settle her racing mind, when her name on his lips shakes her from her reverie.

_ “Emily.”  _

Brown eyes meet brown eyes. His hand finds hers, his thumb brushes the top of her hand. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“I know.” He leans over, ignoring the lingering pain in his side, and brushes a wayward piece of dark hair behind her ear. 

Emily shifts closer to him on the couch, resting her chin on his shoulder. “What do we do?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Maybe we could … start again?” She stares at her knees, twisting the wine glass between her fingers.

“How do we do that?” 

She blinks; her head tilts to the side, choosing her words carefully. “We could start with that dinner.” 

**Beginnings**

The game is in the fourth quarter when they pull apart, cheeks flushed and lips swollen. She’s pressed into the sofa, a pillow beneath her head, one hand trailing lazily down his back. 

“Shit,” she mutters, glancing at her watch. “I need to … I need to get going.” She pats her jacket pockets for her keys and phone, only to realize they’d both ended up on the floor. 

“Do you want to stay?” Hotch reaches for their abandoned glasses on the coffee table, not daring to look her in the eye. 

“I can’t,” She replies quickly, because  _ that _ doesn’t seem to bode well. 

“You’ve been drinking, and it’s late,” he says pointedly. “Might be better to stay.” 

“I had one glass of wine, Hotch. I’m not drunk.” She blanches. She doesn’t want to admit it, but he’s right. She’s  _ tired _ , and even though it was just one glass, her head feels fuzzy.

“You look like you’re about to pass out.” 

She rolls her eyes, but concedes with a sigh. “Fine. You’re right. Alright. I can sleep on the couch.” 

“You’re not sleeping on the damn couch, Emily.” He looks amused at her discomfort before he slowly stands, and she doesn’t miss his subtle wince. 

It’s not like they haven’t shared a bed before. 

“I don’t have any clothes,” she attempts feebly, shifting back and forth. 

“I think that can be figured out.” 

… 

His old FBI t-shirt hits her midthigh, and the sweatpants are so loose they fall right off. She decides to forego the sweatpants and pulls at the t-shirt to stretch it down a little further.  _ Fuck it. It’s not like he hasn’t seen it all before.  _

But when she finds him in the master bedroom, tossing pillows to the floor and pulling the comforter back, she self-consciously pulls the t-shirt further down her legs.

What’s ironic about all of this is that his own bed might be the one place they haven’t had sex. 

The last time she came to his house they hadn’t even made it up the stairs, let alone his bedroom.. They’d fucked on the living room floor, half dressed and desperate. She’d left shortly after, as if it never even happened. 

But that was then. 

Instead of undressing her once she’s settled beside him, Hotch kisses her goodnight like he’s been doing it all his life and flicks off the light. 

When her eyes close, his arm curls around her protectively. For the first time since that ill-fated day in Manassas, she sleeps soundly through the night. 

...

When Emily awakens the next morning, her first thing she notices is that his bed is  _ seriously _ more comfortable than hers. The second is that the space beside her where Hotch slept is empty, the sheets wrinkles and the covers thrown back. 

The third is the scent of bacon wafting up the steps into the room.  _ He’s making her breakfast.  _

She didn’t know he even knew how to cook. 

With piqued interest, she slides out of his bed and pads down the stairs into the kitchen, clearing her throat to announce her presence. 

“French toast, pancakes, or waffles? He’s at the stove, surrounded by various pans and mixing bowls, waving a spatula in one hand. There’s batter on his shirt and something questionable in his hair. She’s never seen him this disheveled up until now. 

“I have a choice?” She draws one long, bare leg up beside her, still wearing his shirt from the night before and nothing else. 

“Just this once. Next time you’re at the mercy of my culinary repertoire.” He pushes a mug of coffee in her direction. 

_ Next time.  _ Her heart flutters at those two simple words. 

She decides on French toast and watches him get to work, intrigued. He’s clearly done this before, based on the ease of which he mixes, measures, and pours the various ingredients. She can’t help but wonder if this was how he used to spend Saturday mornings with Haley. 

“I never pegged you as a chef.” She sips the coffee - it’s just to her liking. Clearly he’s been paying attention over time. 

“I keep a few tricks hidden in my sleeve. There’s more coffee too, if you want some.” 

As she sips her second mug, he finishes making breakfast and they eat in thoughtful silence. 

Hotch finally speaks once his plate is empty, clearing his throat. “So … about that dinner.” 

She nearly drops her fork. “What about it?”

“Are you free on Saturday?” 

**Old Habits**

They’re back to square one - fucking each other in hotel rooms. 

The team flies to Chicago a few days after the impromptu sleepover - their first trip since before everything fell apart. They land pretty late, arriving at the hotel with only about nine hours before they have to be at it the next morning.

She’s wrapped in a towel post shower when she hears the knock at the door, and she doesn’t have to ask to know it’s him.

Within minutes of closing the hotel room door, she’s on her back and his head is between her legs. His mouth is everywhere except where she needs him the most, and he takes his time kissing her inner thighs languidly. “Aaron,” she breathes, her fingers tightening in his dark hair. “I need - “ 

“What do you need?” He’s teasing her, grinning smugly against her knee, leaving kisses there too. He already knows her answer, but he’s not going to let her off that quickly. “This?” He brushes his thumb over her, smirking when her legs tremble at the contact.

An unintelligible wail escapes from her - she’s  _ close _ and he’s just getting started. 

“Or this?” He slips two fingers inside of her, curling them just enough so her hips lift off the bed, and she groans in frustration as her spine arches almost painfully. 

“You’re such a tease,” she half-heartedly throws a pillow in his direction, and he bats it away before lowering his head again, securing both of her knees over his shoulders. It’s been almost eight weeks, and she comes for the first time that evening almost instantly with just one long and slow caress of his tongue. The first orgasm hits her hard; her entire body tenses and shakes uncontrollably. 

She’s barely recovered from round one before he lifts her up, one arm under her knees and the other around her back, carrying her across the room before depositing her on the desk. She curls one leg tightly around his waist, fingernails scraping down his back as he pounds into her. When he finally falls over the edge, she’s right there with him, his teeth biting into her shoulder.

Old habits, as they say, die hard.

…

She doesn’t try to talk herself out of asking him to follow her home once they’re back from Chicago. 

When Hotch stumbles into the bedroom with Emily in his arms, her legs wrapped around his waist and arms flung around his neck, he lowers her to her bed without even breaking their kiss. 

Emily pulls him down with her, rolling them over in one smooth motion so she’s sitting astride his hips, one thigh on either side of his. His head is between her breasts, kissing the smooth skin and ghosting over her nipples, raking his fingers through her hair. “Aaron,” she sighs deeply, her head falling back. 

His mouth finds her neck, leaving a trail of kisses before catching her lips in a rough kiss. “Been thinking about you all day,” he breathes, eyeing her naked form intensely. Hotch buries his face against her neck and holds her to him, his fingers digging into her hips as she sinks down onto his length with a satisfied sigh. Emily rocks back and forth slowly, almost too slowly, setting her own pace and taking her time. His hands are anchoring her in place as she continues to build them up, her body starting to tremble in anticipation. When he reaches between them and strokes her with his thumb, she finally breaks apart, her head falling into his chest as she comes for the first time.

She’s still shaking, her hands braced against his chest when Hotch is running his hands through her hair, dropping kisses along her shoulders. He’s impatient, practically growling into her neck, and easily flips them over so his body covers hers. Within seconds he’s buried inside of her again, hard as hell, her knees on either side of his hips. His pace is rough and fast; her hands slide around his neck for leverage as her hips lift just enough to meet his, and it’s so good she nearly forgets about how sore she’s going to be in just a few hours. 

“Right there, oh my God,” she moans.

“Come for me again,” he murmurs roughly, his mouth sealing over hers once again. Her hips lift against his, her body starting to spasm uncontrollably. “That’s it,” he coaxes her as she cries out, her back arching off the bed. He’s not far behind, and when his hips finally still, she’s breathing hard against his neck, her fingers tracing lazy patterns over his shoulders. 

When she dozes off, it’s in his arms, where she stays until the next morning. 

**Anticipation**

She’s almost embarrassed of how long she’s spent getting ready for this date. She actually styled her hair - blew it out smooth and straight, and touched it up with the straightener that hasn’t been used in months. She took the time to contour her face with makeup, used the expensive mascara (the one she saves for occasions like this), On afterthought, an extra spritz of perfume goes behind her neck. 

Five outfit changes later, she decides on what she put on initially, settling on an emerald green jumpsuit. She considered a wrap dress, two different little black dresses (out of an impressive collection), and a silky violet blouse that she’s been saving for a long time. 

What she doesn’t know is that he also changes his shirt (despite the overwhelmingly little diversity in his wardrobe of suits and dress shirts) several times before settling on a shade of blue. It’s a quick drive to her apartment. He knocks, three times and his throat goes dry when he hears her shoes punctuate the floor, then pause. 

She steadies herself on her heels (it’s been so long since she’s worn this particular pair) before opening the door.

“Hey.” He smiles at her, and if she looks closely, can see just a hint of flush on his cheeks. 

“Hi.” There’s heat rising to her face too, which feels ridiculous considering they’ve spent the last several months in situations wildly more risqué than this. 

“You look beautiful,” he says, leaning in to kiss her cheek, and hands her a bouquet of lavender peonies.

“Thank you,” She beams, and opens the door wider for him to come in as she busies herself with finding a vase for the arrangement. “I just have to get my wrap.” She disappears into another room, leaving him with a whiff of perfume he’s never noticed before. 

He doesn’t know if she’s thanking him for the compliment or the flowers, but luckily he can’t dwell for too long because she’s ready to go a few moments later. 

“Ready?” 

**Firsts**

She’s never been in his personal car before. It’s black on the outside, pristine grey leather on the inside, with a carseat and a few wayward Buzz Lightyear toys in the backseat. It smells like him, and if she shifts just to the left, her elbow brushes his on the center console and she gets the slightest whiff of his cologne. 

For once, 66 isn’t a complete parking lot, even though they’re headed towards DC. _ The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars  _ plays softly through the speakers, and she learns it’s his favorite David Bowie album, just like hers. Even after months of fucking him behind closed doors (and working with him for four years), there’s still a lot about him she doesn’t know. 

Something about the music choice makes her smile, but she can’t quite put her finger on it. They make it through  _ Five Years, Souls Love,  _ and most of  _ Moonage Daydream _ before they arrive at their destination. 

The restaurant is a cozy but trendy spot in Arlington, tucked away on the edge of a bustling street full of shops, fitness studios, and bars. She feels goosebumps when his hand finds the small of her back as they walk, perfectly in step down the street and through the doors. They’re seated at an intimate table towards the back, tucked away from the hum of conversations and waitstaff. 

She orders wine - a French red, and her eyes sparkle when she tells him he needs to try it. He takes her lead, even though he normally drinks scotch or whiskey- and they split the bottle along with an impressive charcuterie board. They’re halfway through it when she begins to explain the artful science behind its construction.

“How do you know all of this?” He’s impressed with her expertise but not at all surprised by her extensive knowledge of cured meats and expensive cheese.

“I learned everything I ever needed to know about cheese in France.” She pops a piece of baguette into her mouth. “Italy was where I learned about wine.” Her gaze wanders away for just a brief moment, a wistful look dances over her face.

“Emily?” 

She shakes her head ever so slightly, coming back to reality with a small grin pulling at her lips. 

“What are you thinking of getting?” He quickly changes the subject and brushes her hand with the tips of his fingers. 

“I should probably figure that out,” she says softly, turning back to the menu in front of her.

**Starman**

They’re halfway through a vanilla raspberry gelato for dessert when she notices they’ve completely avoided any and all work talk. Instead, he’s telling her stories from the courtroom during his days as a prosecutor. She sometimes forgets about his prior career, only because she can’t picture him  _ not _ running the BAU. 

Her hand brushes against his as they leave the restaurant, taking the long way around the block back to his car. When their fingers link together, he notices for the first time just how small her hands are. He’s never actually held her hand before; the small act itself feels more intimate than it should. He doesn’t mind, and judging by the content look on her face, neither does she. 

David Bowie is still playing on the way home -  _ Starman  _ this time - and her eyes close for a brief moment and head tip back just slightly, swaying in time with the last minute of the song. Even after the past few months of whatever it is they’re doing, there’s so much about her he doesn’t know -the little details that make her her. The little details he never got around to learning. 

He walks her to the door to her building, their steps in sync as they slowly ascend the sidewalk. 

“I had a great time tonight.” The smile on her face spreads to her eyes, and he’s certain she’s never looked more beautiful than in that very moment.

“I did too.” The blood rushes from his head, because she’s still grinning at him, and before he can stop himself he wraps a hand around the back of her head, the other finding her waist, and pulls her in, his lips colliding with hers. It’s certainly not their first kiss, or even their second - she’s kissed him more times than she can count at this point - but there’s something so novel about it, it makes her dizzy. 

There isn’t talk of a second date, but there doesn’t have to be. 

**Abide**

A week after their first dinner, a memo is sent reminding of the expressive forbiddance of any kind of fraternization in the workplace between agents. 

_ Perfect timing, _ Emily laughs into his shoulder when he reads the email out loud from his phone shortly after they’ve thoroughly exhausted themselves. She’s wearing one of his t-shirts, their legs tangled together underneath the covers. “Maybe we should be more careful,” he murmurs in her ear, his lips brushing her neck. Hotch quickly tosses his phone to the side, the email forgotten for the time being. 

“I’d say we’re doing a pretty good job.” 

“If Strauss has a reason to - “ 

She quickly cuts him off, pressing her lips to his. “Don’t talk about Strauss right now.” In one smooth motion, she tosses the covers aside and kisses her way down his torso. When her mouth closes around him and she takes him all the way to the back of her throat, his hand fists in her dark hair and he curses into the dark.

...

The next morning, Hotch calls them into the BAU an extra fifteen minutes early to review the briefing, because that’s the order he was given. It’s been less than an hour since she’d woken him up with her lips wrapped around him once again, and less than fifteen minutes since they hurried into the bullpen. No one notices that they walked in together, their hair is the same level of damp; their clothes slightly wrinkled. 

“I heard it started in the San Francisco office,” Garcia offers casually without looking away from her computer screen. “Just a rumor. I know nothing. I swear.”

“Let’s keep rumors to a minimum,” Hotch says quickly as the rest of the team files in and takes their seats.

They sit around the table, each of them wearing a different expression. Rossi chuckles and rolls his eyes (he is, after all, one of the reasons these policies were created), JJ seemingly pays little attention. Reid rattles off a string of statistics regarding relationships in the workplace, with Morgan tossing a look of disbelief in his direction. 

Hotch has to fight to keep his voice even amidst the wisecracking jokes and Rossi’s blase attitude, and completely avoids Emily’s penetrating stare. “Just, behave yourselves,” Hotch ends his spiel, feeling like a complete hypocrite. “We don’t need anymore reasons to have Strauss down our backs.” 

**Hush**

When she finally looks up from the report she’s been chipping away at for the better part of the evening, she realizes it’s been at least two hours since she’d said goodnight to JJ. The sun has blended in the sky and faded to a dark blue. 

A quick glance of the clock tells her it’s almost 7:30 PM, and a check of her phone yields no new text messages or calls. She frowns, but begins to collect the hodgepodge of folders and paperwork that have accumulated on her desk, because it’s time to pack it in for the night. 

She sees the light on in his office, and it’s so quiet in the bullpen she can just barely decipher the tell-tale  _ tap-click-tap _ of his fingers on his computer. She picks up the file and ascends the stairs.

“I didn’t know you were still here.” She leans on the doorframe and gives him a once-over. He’s tired, she can tell, judging by his loosened tie and sleeves rolled to his elbows, a coffee cup inches from his hand. 

“Yeah. Late night.” He looks up briefly. “I’ll be at least another hour.” Then on afterthought, “You can take my key and let yourself in. I already asked Jessica to keep Jack for the night.” 

With a devious grin, she cracks the door to his office and crosses the room in two long strides. “I have a better idea.” 

His eyebrows nearly disappear into his hairline as she undoes the buttons on her dark green blouse, letting it hang loosely around her shoulders, revealing the lace bra she’s wearing beneath. 

“Emily!” 

“No one’s here.” She shrugs, reaching for her belt buckle as he leaps up from behind his desk. 

“Are you out of your mind?” He hisses, looking over her shoulder down into the bullpen. “What if someone - “

Emily’s lips cover his in a quick kiss. “No one is here, Aaron. I’ve been down there for hours. I haven’t heard a soul.” She presses her body against his; already feeling him growing hard against her thigh. “I thought you might want to -” Her fingers pluck at the buttons on his shirt with perfect accuracy, popping through the tiny holes. “Unwind a bit.” 

Hotch can barely resist her. He kisses her, lush and full and deep, his tongue prying into her mouth and fighting for dominance as they fumble with buttons, zippers, and layers of fabric. 

He lifts her up onto his desk with ease and a stack of folders fall to the floor in a heap. He stands between her legs, pulling her pants down over her hips until they fall to the ground. His hand delves between her thighs, finding her soaking wet. “My God,” he mutters, his own legs beginning to buckle as she nimbly works his belt and zipper. “Em…”

His hand is still between her legs when she wraps her delicate fingers around his length, pumping him until he’s ready, and he nudges her legs further apart. Emily digs her fingernails into his shoulders when he finally pushes into her to the hilt. Her eyes widen, head falling onto his shoulder. Hotch digs a hand into her hair and tugs, exposing her neck and caresses the smooth skin with his lips, stopping on her pulse point, sucking gently. 

“No marks,” she gasps, but words are lost on her as he continues his assault on her neck. “I can’t have -” 

He cuts her off when his mouth seals over hers once again. Her hips meet his as he thrusts into her, setting a quick and relentless pace that makes her head spin. Of all the places he’s fucked her, cities all over the country, his office has never made the list, up until now, at least. It might just be his new favorite. 

The door isn’t even fully shut, let alone locked. They’re fairly certain no one is left, but there’s always the chance of a wayward straggler or even worse - one of their own - and the fact that someone could discover them at any instant makes what they’re doing just _that_ much better. 

From her position on his desk, she can just see over the railing of the bullpen, and she looks over her shoulder a few times here and there, an insurance policy of some kind. Emily bites her lip and suppresses a groan - he’s fucking her  _ hard _ , with deep thrusts of his hips and an urgency she isn’t used to. She braces herself with her hands on the desk as he drives into her once more.

“You feel so fucking good,” He growls into her ear, his hand gripped tightly around her hip. “God, you’re so beautiful.” 

Emily presses her damp forehead against his. Her body starts to shake. “Make me come, Aaron. I have to c-” 

He slides a hand between them. His fingers meet her slick skin, and she moans in his ear long and low. “I’m so close,” she murmurs, her muscles starting to flutter around him. He groans into her mouth and presses his thumb against her. 

It’s short lived, because his office is suddenly lit by the shadow of a light going on downstairs, a rustle of fabric brushing against a desk, the click-clack of shoes on the linoleum floor.  _ Fuck.  _

He stops abruptly, still inside of her; pulls her to his chest. She moans disappointedly; she was  _ so  _ close. But the light is still on, and whoever is in the bullpen is still there, doing God knows what. Hotch holds her against him firmly; her body is trembling with need. 

One wrong move (or noise) could give them both away. 

“Aaron,” she whispers in his ear, and he twitches inside of her because the damn sound of her saying his name. “Aaron,” she says again, his name rolling off her tongue, “I need to come, now.” 

He shakes his head, still hard as steel inside of her, the footsteps and swish of drawers a looming threat just too close for comfort. She’s practically convulsing at this point, so close to falling over the edge _ ,  _ and he hushes her moans with kisses. 

Emily shifts her hips, rocking against him, as if begging him, her eyes glazed with lust and need. Her hair is a mess, her skin flushed, there are marks across her shoulders and collarbones from his lips and teeth. Marks she’ll still have tomorrow, but in the moment she couldn’t care less.

_ Fuck it.  _ He gives in almost instantly, beginning to drive into her again, his strokes deliberate and fast. She’s biting her lip almost to blood, trying  _ so  _ incredibly hard not to make a sound, but when he fucks her like this she can’t help herself. He anchors her back with one arm, and brings his free hand to rest gently over her mouth. “Come now, sweetheart.” He punctuates his words with another thrust. 

Her eyes widen in surprise and instantly roll back into her head, and she thrashes against him for almost a full minute, and he fucks her through her orgasm. “That’s it, just like that,” he murmurs into her ear, his hand muffling her cries. He holds her close to him, and when she trembles in his arms, he spills into her. Her body goes slack against his, her head against his chest, and she’s completely still for five full minutes as her heart stops pounding and her breath returns to normal. 

“Oh my God,” Emily mutters, clinging to Hotch’s shoulders. He kisses her again as their breathing returns to normal. The light from the bullpen has been turned off, the footsteps have disappeared. They’re seemingly alone once again. Hotch pulls out of her quickly, reaching for a box of tissues and tossing it in her direction. 

Hotch busies himself with tidying up the office - dropping folders onto his desk, picking up the odds and ends that managed to fall to the floor. He steps into his pants and hastily zips them, fumbling with his belt as he peers out the window of his office. “Looks like we’re all clear.” When he turns around. she’s still perched on his desk, the tissue box in her hands.   
  


“You alright?” 

“I need a minute.” She can tell she’s going to be stiff in the morning. “My legs are numb.” 

Amused, Hotch tosses her pants in her general direction. “I’m not carrying you out of here, Prentiss. You’re going to have to walk.” 

**Milestones**

Dinners are becoming a regularity, when their schedules allow it. It’s become second nature, practically a given that there will be another each time he drops her off with a kiss to the cheek. There’s the steakhouse in Alexandria he insists on, a Spanish Tapas restaurant in Logan Circle she frequents often, a seafood restaurant in Bethesda, and every now and then, a good old dive bar.

It’s a fairly predictable pattern - dinners and conversations, followed by walks and talks. Every now and then, he follows her inside when he drops her off, but he never stays the night. And with each passing evening, she wonders if maybe, just maybe, she could get used to this. What she doesn’t know is he wonders the same thing. 

They go to an Irish pub in Alexandria one night in the middle of a slow week. It’s a much younger crowd of twenty-somethings mingling and a decidedly less upscale experience than any of their previous dinners together. But they sit at the bar and drink Guinness while eating pub food, laughing and people watching. 

It’s remarkably casual yet no less intimate. She wears the jeans with the four buttons he’d struggled with several months ago and a black leather jacket. He likes her in leather, he thinks, as she tips the remnants of her second pint down her throat. 

He comes up to her apartment later that night, and wakes up next to her the next morning. It’s almost like a milestone they never expected to reach.

**Breathe 2AM**

Somehow, they end up sharing a room in Texas. 

It’s a small town outside of Austin with exactly two stoplights and one main road. 

The police department is on edge from a string of home invasion-style murders that point to a team of unsubs with every intention of striking again soon. They’ve been at it all day, and are up to their elbows in case files, evidence reports, and tips from the public that have led them absolutely nowhere. 

Thanks to a few miscommunications, they’re put up at a small bed and breakfast - there isn’t a Marriott to be found around here. The owner sheepishly mentions there are only four rooms available, the team does some mental gymnastics to get logistics worked out. 

In the end, Garcia ends up with JJ, Reid is with Morgan, and Rossi takes the single room. 

“I can share with Hotch,” Emily says casually, even though there isn’t another option, and it’s a quick done deal. No one bats an eye or ponders the appropriateness of it (or lack thereof) due to sheer exhaustion, and by the next morning, it’s practically forgotten when the team reconvenes the next morning. 

Night two, however, is a different story. 

_ “Don’t you dare stop,”  _ she keens into the darkness, her back arched, her hands pulling at his hair for purchase. Her left leg is over his shoulder, the right dangling off the bed, and his mouth is exploring her once again. He’s taking his time, building her up and reveling in the fact that he can keep her on edge like this for as long as he wants. Frustrated, she cants her hips against his face in an attempt to relieve the pressure she struggles to contain. 

“Shhhh,” he hushes her, and his tongue laps against her  _ right there _ , and her knee trembles in anticipation. “These walls are thin.” 

“I don’t care. Just get up here and  _ fuck _ me.” 

“Not so fast, sweetheart.” He takes her apart with his mouth once, almost twice, and by the time she’s on top of him, her hips rocking back and forth over his, neither of them care about noise. 

... 

Two hours later, they’re awakened by a loud and shrill, yet familiar sound.

He unwraps himself from around her, reaching aimlessly in the direction of the nightstand to quell the offending noise.  _ Shit _ . It’s his phone, and if it’s going off at - he checks the clock - 1:49 AM - it’s probably nothing good. 

The noise suddenly gets louder and now it’s coming from her side of the bed too. It soon becomes evident  _ both _ of their phones are going off. All chances of sleep quickly fly out the window. 

It’s from JJ - the team needs to assemble, now. 

“Emily,” Hotch gives her a gentle shake, already starting to reach for his clothes which are tangled with some of hers on the floor. “Get up. We’re getting called in.” 

“Someone better be dead,” Emily groans beside him, her voice muffled into the pillow, her own phone blaring the same message.

“Someone  _ is _ dead. Why else would we be getting called in?” 

…

Everyone looks a little worse for wear when the team meets in the small lobby barely big enough to hold all of them. Reid’s eyes are blearly and Morgan is scowling, arms crossed over his chest. Garcia, surprisingly, is wide awake, most likely having never actually  _ gone _ to sleep in the first place. Emily eyes her warily, hoping she didn’t hear any strange noises coming from down the hallway just a few hours ago. 

“Houston PD is calling us in.” JJ finally appears seemingly out of nowhere. She looks more put together than one should at nearly 2 AM. “Three bodies were found about forty minutes ago in a park about twenty minutes from here. I’m sending you all the crime scene photos to review before we head to the police department. They want us there as soon as possible.” 

They quickly regroup, reviewing the new evidence while someone brews a pot of coffee. Even though Emily downs two cups before they head out, she struggles to stay awake and barely hears JJ calling her name as they hurry into the waiting SUVs parked outside. 

“You alright, Em?” JJ is suddenly beside her, a giant cup of coffee in hand. “Garcia told me she heard some noises coming from your room.” 

“Huh?” Emily eyes her friend suspiciously, saying a silent prayer nothing was heard through the thin walls. 

“Garcia told me she heard some noises coming from your room,” JJ repeats before taking a long sip of coffee, a suspicious look crossing her face. “Is something going on with you and Hotch?” 

Emily nearly chokes on her own coffee. “JJ, what are you talking about? Of course not. Are you out of your mind?” 

“Garcia sounded pretty convinced -” 

“JJ, it’s 2 in the morning and we’re about to go examine dead bodies,” Emily groans, yawning into her fist. “There’s nothing going on.” 

The answer seems to satisfy her friend for the time being, and they’re quickly interrupted by Hotch striding past them quickly, motioning toward one of the empty vehicles. “JJ, you’re with me. Prentiss, you’re with Morgan.” 

Emily breathes a sigh of relief, flashing JJ an assuring smile before ducking away, hurrying to catch up with Morgan. 

**Thunder**

In the early hours of the morning in Topeka, she rests her head against his chest and listens to the storm churning ominously outside their window. He’s dozing, his head nestled comfortably against the stark white hotel pillow. Emily runs the tips of her fingers over the scars on his torso. It’s only after she’s traced them all does she realize he’s stopped flinching when she touches them. 

“Do you think anyone knows?” It’s not something she thinks about often, but when she does, it sits in the forefront of her mind like a heavy weight. She’s replayed her conversation from Texas with JJ over and over in her mind.

Hotch lifts his head; kisses her bare shoulder. “Would it matter if they did?” 

Would it? Of course it would - it could be their end - it could get at least one of them fired, he could lose his title, she could lose the only thing that has ever felt remotely close to family. Whatever  _ this _ is, it’s selfish to think it might have a good ending. 

“It would matter to someone,” she whispers, turning in his arms and tucking herself into the curve of his body. 

**Inevitable**

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. 

_ “Of course I can do this,” Emily assured him in the locker room at the police station as she changed into the short, slinky cocktail dress. It’s the first time they’ve been alone together since the morning. “You and I both know I’m the best chance you have.”  _

_ “You don’t have to do this, you know.” He’d never admit it, but he wants her back out because if anything happens to her, he won’t be able to live with himself. But she’s ready to roll, and if they don’t make moves now, they’re going to miss their chance.  _

_ … _

_ They spend two hours reviewing the entire operation from top to bottom. An operation to take down Pat Ryan, their unsub abducting and murdering women from nightclubs in Cleveland. _

_ “If you sense anything is amiss, we’ll be in to get you out.”  _

_ He sounds calmer than he feels. He watches one of the Cleveland FBI agents set her up with a comm unit just outside of the nightclub in the makeshift stakeout van.  _

_ “Hotch, I’ve done this before. It’s going to be fine,” she reminds him gently, adjusting the tiny device in her ear. “We’re going to get this guy.”  _

It  _ almost  _ goes off without a hitch - she dresses the part flawlessly, and once she’s in the club and seated at the bar, patiently waiting for him, he almost forgets it’s all for show. 

The plan works until it doesn’t - when the bartender serving their drinks blows her cover, and within a matter of seconds, the entire operation goes to shit. 

By the time they make it into the bar, it’s too late. 

…

Garcia comes through with a location - a warehouse eight blocks from the nightclub, and Hotch doesn’t bother to hide his complete lack of objectivity as they coordinate the extraction protocol with the Cleveland PD. He’s about to tear into a rookie cop when Rossi lays a tentative hand on his shoulder. Hotch shrugs him aside, angrily clenching his fists.

“Aaron -“ the older agent is quickly cut off. 

“We’re getting her out of there, Dave. I don’t care if I have to kill him with my bare hands.” 

Half the Cleveland PD dispatches to the location, and within an hour of the initial operation, the warehouse door is blown open. 

Morgan and Rossi go in first, weapons wielded with exact precision as they quickly clear the first section of the building, motioning wordlessly to turn to the right. Hotch is right behind them, a Cleveland detective on his heels and one more to his left. They’re silent through the second portion of the building -Â down a few feet, over to the right, and a few hundred feet to the left. It’s like a choreographed dance - every movement in sync, every motion timed. When they round the corner, the building is suddenly flooded in light and Hotch’s blood runs cold.

“Well, well, well,” croons a sickeningly sweet, slightly depraved voice. “I had a feeling you would show up.” 

**Objectivity**

“Drop it, Ryan.” Hotch’s hands clench tightly around his gun, knuckles white. He’s aware of only one thing - the unsub’s gun pressed firmly to Emily’s temple. From where he’s standing, he can see the mess of bruises that have started to set across her face and limbs, the dried blood forming on her upper lip. 

Ryan laughs too casually for a man with at least twelve guns pointed at him. “Funny. No way. Not until I know I’m walking out of here.” His hand lingers dangerously close to Emily’s breast, and a bead of sweat drips down Hotch’s brow. “This one’s coming with me.” 

“We both know that’s not happening, son,” Rossi chimes in, his tone much more pleasant than Hotch. “Now, you need to release Agent Prentiss before this gets worse.” 

“I don’t think so.” 

“Release Agent Prentiss, Ryan, and we can talk.” Rossi tries again.

“She’s a fine one, you know. Haven’t had a chance to get to know her like I wanted to because you fools showed up.” Ryan’s free hand reaches up and squeezes Emily’s breast. 

“Drop the gun, Ryan,” Hotch commands again, his voice menacing.  _ If he fucking touches her again he will rip him apart.  _ “If you don’t, I will shoot you myself.” He swallows angrily and forces himself to not look at Emily. 

“If you do, she’s as good as dead.” Ryan tightens his hold on Emily, who grimaces in pain. “It can’t get any worse for me anyway.” He laughs maniacally, never taking his eyes off Hotch. 

Hotch’s chest tightens. Ryan clearly has no intentions on making a deal - he’s far past caring. “Drop the gun, Ryan. It’s over. You’re surrounded.” 

“Get any closer and I’ll blow her head off,” Ryan sneers a warning. 

One of the younger officers a few feet from Hotch coughs nervously, the sound breaking the deafening silence in the warehouse. He attempts to cover his mouth with his elbow but instead bumps into a garage door opener, momentarily distracting Ryan and his head turns to the offending sound. “What the fuck -” 

It happens so fast, it’s over in seconds.

It’s Rossi who takes Ryan down with a well-timed shot to the thigh. He immediately releases his hold on Emily, the gun clattering to the ground and out of his reach. The younger man screams and writhes across the concrete in an attempt to escape as Rossi hurries forward to secure the weapon. Ryan is immediately surrounded by no less than six uniformed cops and quickly wrestled into handcuffs. 

He lingers back, his gun still drawn, heart racing. His eyes waver between Rossi and Emily, who is unsteady on her feet and clearly shaken, eyes unfocused, breathing hard. He’s grateful when Rossi holsters his own gun and starts toward Ryan, a knowing look on his face. “Get her, Aaron. I got him.” 

Hotch is at Emily’s side in seconds, carefully lowering her to the floor as gently as he can, supporting her weight under his arm. “It’s over, Emily. We’ve got you.” Red and purple welts are starting to set on her arms, her face is even more swollen than he originally thought. “Don’t try to move,” he murmurs, quickly removing his jacket and draping it over her. “We’ve got you. You’re safe.” 

“Hotch, I’m fine, stop. Go help Rossi,” she shivers, attempting to push him away. He shakes his head, checking her over to assess any damage, looking for anything noticeably broken or sprained, but all he sees is bruises on her face, blood from her nose. 

“Rossi’s fine. It’s under control.” His stomach churns when she grimaces once again. “Emily, what hurts?” 

“It hurts to breathe,” she groans, sagging against him with exhaustion. “I think my ribs are broken,” she adds in a whisper, struggling to take a full deep breath. Her fingers tighten around the sleeve of his shirt, leaving bloodstains from her torn knuckles.

“I think so too.” Hotch swallows hard, chastising himself inwardly for putting her into this situation in the first place. “Just a few more minutes. We’re getting you out of here.” 

Emily doesn’t even attempt to argue when he yells loudly for an ambulance. 

**Lucky**

Hotch rides with her to the hospital in the back of the ambulance. He quickly waves his credentials at the triage nurse who quickly gets them settled in a private room.  _ Sometimes the job has its advantages _ . 

He paces the ground as the ER doctor examines her, sending worried glances in her direction every few moments. Emily almost laughs as he turns a near comical shade of grey when the doctor palpated her broken ribs and she hisses in pain. From the corner of her eye she watches him, acutely aware of the fact that he hasn’t been more than three feet from her side since they’d gotten her out of the warehouse.

It takes almost an hour for the doctor to finish. She has a nasal fracture (she’s lucky it wasn’t her jaw) and a probable orbital fracture. Several broken ribs; foot shaped bruises are her souvenir for those. A concussion, deep cuts on her knees that need to be re-cleaned and bandaged, and over two dozen abrasions and scrapes over her arms and legs. The bruising and swelling on her face will take at least a few days to subside. 

He only leaves when he absolutely  _ has _ to - when she gets X-rays. He takes a call from Rossi, letting him know they’ve secured the scene and the rest of the team is heading back to the hotel. When he comes back in, she recognizes the guilt etched in the fine lines on his face. 

She doesn’t have to question that he holds himself semi-responsible. Of course he does. It’s not even a question, and they’ll have to deal with that later. Instead, she leans back and closes her eyes, attempting to focus on anything other than the pain coursing through her limbs.

**Safe**

Emily knows it isn’t a coincidence that he takes each turn back to the hotel with an abundance of caution. Hell, he drives a solid five miles  _ under _ the speed limit, and brakes for every speed bump, traffic light, and stop sign. 

“You can go a little faster, you know.” Her head is pressed against the seat, her fingers are curled around the center console, her knuckles white.

“I’m going the speed limit, Emily,” he lies, not taking his eyes off the road. 

“Since when do you care about the speed limit?” She tries to hide the grimace as the suburban hits a dip in the road, sending a jolt of pain through her entire body. 

“Just be glad Morgan’s not the one driving.” He doesn’t have to look at her to know the tense upright position she’s sitting is agonizing. 

The car in front of them quickly hits the brakes, and on reflex, so does he.  _ Damn city traffic _ . The yelp that comes from her throat nearly breaks him apart.  _ “ _ Son of a bitch,” he growls, tightening his hand around the steering wheel and glancing in her direction. “I’m sorry, Emily. We’re almost there.” 

_ “Just drive”, _ she says through firmly clenched teeth, sweat beading on her forehead.

...

Neither of them care who sees them disappear behind the same hotel room door that night. But it’s late, and the hotel is practically empty save for the night concierge. He throws a concerned look their way when he catches a glimpse of Emily’s severely bruised face and unsteady gait. 

Hotch stays close, his hand hovering at the small of her back protectively as they maneuver their way through the hotel. Once in the room, Emily puts the deadbolt and chain lock on, and checks the door twice.

By the time she’s showered and changed once again, almost an hour has passed, because everything takes longer with broken ribs. She struggles to get comfortable, gingerly turning this way and that, each position less comfortable than the last. 

Eventually her mind starts to blur and her eyes flutter as she succumbs to the numbing effects of the heavy pain medication. “Aaron?” She whispers into the dark, one foot connecting with his ankle under the covers.

“I’m right here, Em.” 

**Nightmares**

When he drops her off at her apartment once they’ve landed the next evening, she asks him to stay, because she doesn’t want to be alone. 

What she doesn’t know is he was planning on staying anyway, and when she unlocks the door to her apartment, he’s right behind her with both of their go-bags in his hands. 

She wakes up screaming mere hours later, drenched in a cold sweat. It’s like Colorado all over again. 

He’s instantly awake, flipping the light on. “It’s a nightmare. Just breathe,” Hotch murmurs, rubbing circles against her back as she hyperventilates. “I’ve got you.” He reaches for her as carefully as he can, lips brushing against her hair. “Breathe.” 

Her chest heaves, the pain starting to throb once again as the sudden movements irritate her ribs. It takes almost ten minutes for her breathing to return to normal. “Sorry for waking you,” she croaks, struggling to sit upright. 

“Want to talk about it?” Hotch rubs her back in slow, soothing circles. 

“It’s all blurry.” She swipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “I don’t remember the actual dream.” 

“You’re in pain, aren’t you?” It’s not a question even though it sounds like one. 

“Not much,” she attempts in vain, avoiding his gaze. “Maybe a little bit.” 

“Did you take anything before bed?” 

“No. I wanted to try to sleep without it,” she rests her head in her hands. “It didn’t hurt as much then.” 

“Hang on.” He kisses her cheek and gets out of bed, returning with her pills and a glass of water. 

“Thanks.” She chokes down two of them before settling tentatively against the pillows again. “Seriously. Sorry I’m so useless.” 

Hotch lays next to her, as close as he possibly can be without hurting her. “You’re anything but useless.” 

“I feel useless,” she muses, then yawns. 

“Try to sleep, Emily. I’m right here.” He squeezes her hand, brushing a kiss over her temple. 

She closes her eyes, and sleeps soundly through the night.

**Heal**

When her ribs are completely healed (and a few extra days after that just to be safe), he lays her down on his bed and kisses the remaining bruises (now faded yellow splotches) that remain on her skin. 

Emily whimpers against his shoulder when he finally slides into her in one smooth stroke and tightens her legs around his hips. 

Hotch is cautious to put any weight on her, and holds himself above her carefully, one hand on either side of her head. “I need you to tell me if this hurts,” he says, watching her face for signs of discomfort or pain. 

“I’m fine, Aaron. I won’t break, you know.” She’s clinging to him and dragging her fingers down his back. It’s only after he’s inside of her she realizes how much she’s missed this - and him.

He knows that, but she almost did break a month ago. He’s not sure if he can take that again. “Emily,” he breathes into her neck, inhaling the scent of her shampoo and nipping her smooth skin. “God, I’ve missed this.” He’s completely still inside of her, hard as steel. It might drive her insane. 

“Now, Aaron.” 

Months have gone by since the first time she said his name like that, but it never gets old. Hotch lowers his head and kisses her fully, her bottom lip between his teeth, before he moves, slowly, and he nearly forgot how  _ good _ it feels to be inside of her. He rocks into her carefully but fully, and takes her hands in his and holds them above her head as his hips begin to gain speed.

“Faster,” Emily presses her chest into his, wrapping one of her legs higher around his waist. It doesn’t take much before she breaks apart, and he’s right there with her. 

Just like always.

**In Between**

He makes reservations at a new Brazilian steakhouse a few weeks after she’s fully back to work. They haven’t had dinner out since before their ill-fated trip to Cleveland. 

He’s on his way home to shower and change before picking her up when he has to cancel, because Jack gets sick at his babysitter’s house. With a twinge of regret, he dials her number, and she answers on the second ring. 

She doesn’t mind. She’s desperately in need of some girl talk, and after ensuring Hotch has things under control with Jack, Emily opts for plan B.

She spends the rest of her night laughing with JJ and Penelope over tapas and sangria. 

Emily is two glasses in when the conversation shifts in the direction she knew it would. She’s not drunk, but she hasn’t consumed much alcohol in over a month so she’s starting to feel pleasantly buzzed, 

“Mick Rawson asked about you again,” JJ says smoothly as she refills her glass. 

“Again?” Emily offers quickly, tapping her foot nervously against the floor. 

“He’s still waiting for you to call him.” JJ rests her chin on her hands, watching Emily expectantly across the table. 

“I like a persistent man,” Penelope chimes in. “And I know we’ve said it again but he’s  _ fine _ .” 

“Clearly he’s into you, he’s  _ hot _ , the accent - you could go on one date.” 

“If he’s waiting for me to call, he’s going to be waiting for awhile.” Emily downs what’s left in her glass but says nothing else. 

A knowing look flashes across JJ’s face. “Is it because there’s something going on with you and Hotch?” She pries gently for the second time. 

“Seriously, Jayje? I thought we talked about this - ” Emily glances between the two of them, attempting her best poker face, but their expressions confirm what she’s been trying to hide all along. 

“Are you getting laid by the boss man?” Garcia is less tactful, peering at her expectantly over her glasses.

Emily spits out her drink, coughing loudly into a napkin while attempting to compose herself. “That’s … I guess that’s one way to put it, I guess.” She can feel the color rising in her cheeks at her admission. 

Penelope claps her hands gleefully and practically bounces in her chair. “I KNEW it! You two were  _ so  _ loud in Alaska I almost knocked on the door but -” 

“Can we not?” Emily flushes, dragging her hands over her face.

“Morgan owes me fifty bucks,” JJ laughs. “For how long?” 

“Since last fall.” 

“Wow.” Penelope whistles. “You two really kept it under wraps.” 

Emily chuckles. “What were we supposed to do? Announce it on the jet?” 

“Uh … well that would have been awkward. But Em, we’ve had a feeling for awhile now.” Penelope reaches for Emily’s hand. 

“Who all knows?” She groans. 

“For sure? No one. But we all took a bet.” 

“My God,” Emily sighs, settling back in her chair. “Of course you did.” 

“So now that we know, tell us everything.” 

“Absolutely not,” Emily says with a grin, suddenly feeling strangely at peace.

**Revelations**

He looks surprised to see her on his doorstep. Hotch looks tired, and she quickly remembers he’s been tending to his sick kid for the last six hours while she imbibed at girls’ night. 

“Is everything alright?” He opens the door wider, concern starting to line his face when she asks to come in. “What happened?” He presses a quick kiss to her cheek and ushers her in through the front door, shutting it silently behind them because Jack is fast asleep on the couch in the next room.

“Everything’s fine,” she says quickly, her voice low. “I’m fine … I just …” she trails off, unsure of where to begin, wondering if she should even be here in the first place. “How’s Jack?” 

“It’s a stomach flu. He’ll be good as new in a day or so.” Hotch glances over his shoulder. “I thought you went out with JJ and Garcia.” 

“I did … I was … we -” she trails off, nervously tapping the ground with the toe of her shoe. “We went out.” Emily stuffs her hands into her jeans. “I left.” 

“Sounds like a pretty tame girls’ night,” he jokes, clearly still not convinced nothing is wrong. 

“It ended early … JJ had to get home …” She laughs, her smile just barely touching her eyes, because her heart is racing in her chest. “But I wanted to …”

“Emily,” he tries again, this time more patiently. “Tell me.” 

“I … There’s something you should know, something you need to know before we continue this ... whatever it is we’re doing.”

“What do you mean?” He’s close enough she can see his chest rise and fall. 

She’s never actually uttered the words to anyone before, at least not that she can recall, and certainly never to him, but they spill so easily from her lips before she can stop herself. “I love you.” 

**Unbreakable**

She’s spent so long attempting to be unbreakable. In his own way, so has he. They’ve both been shattered apart only to piece themselves together, albeit haphazardly. 

He grabs her before she can think about leaving, one arm secured around her waist, and cups her face with his other hand. He kisses her slowly, lush and full, and when he pulls away her eyes are glassy. “I love you too.” 

And when he bends his head to kiss her again, her world starts to spin like it did the first time in Philadelphia, except this time it spins into place. 

Maybe it’s them who were unbreakable all along.

  
  



End file.
